


To Save a Dragon

by Urbanvix



Series: Plague Bearer [3]
Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: BDSM, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Buckle up, Come on Sean you brave little man, Exploration of canon, M/M, McReid abounds, More tags to come ;), Plot With Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Salvation/Damnation, Vampires over the edge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22364953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urbanvix/pseuds/Urbanvix
Summary: (Part 3 of 3 of Plaguebearer)“Doctor Reid. Please, I need you to stay awake. Please, just a little while.”He opened his eyes again. It seemed he was on the sofa. The torn remnants of the sheets had been tucked around him. His gaze settled on the wide, tearful eyes and he understood. His Skal must be hungry.“No, not that. Thank you, doctor.” His Skal whimpered softly, turning his face away from his master's torn wrist. His panting breath made a lie of the words and Jonathan woke a little more.Just enough for the rage to seep in.****When hate reigns, love must be tenacious. The Sad Saint is not a doctor, to devise a cure. He is not a warrior, to capture the beasts. He is only a man...only a Skal... only himself.Yet with God, all things are possible. So he will do what he can; he will try.***This series picks up after-the-credits of the game. Plaguebearer is about a 2 out of 10 on the AU scale since it follows on from the story & relationships in Grip. (https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555654)
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid, Sean Hampton/Geoffrey McCullum, Sean Hampton/Jonathan Reid
Series: Plague Bearer [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594702
Comments: 40
Kudos: 68





	1. In Deed and Truth

  
“I'm afraid this is the best I can do. I truly wish I could help you further, Mr Hampton.” Doctor Swansea said again, looking forlorn behind his wide desk. “But Jonathan and I are not ... we are not on the best of terms, you see?”  
  
“But he is your Maker.” Sean insisted.  
  
Doctor Swansea dropped his eyes. His voice was very small when he said, “Even so.”

Sean had never been inside Doctor Swansea's office before now. It was larger than he had expected and he tried to turn out uncharitable thoughts, when he recalled how closely the hospital's patients had been packed in downstairs during the epidemic. Besides, it was not important now.  
  
Sean looked again at the paper, annotated with Doctor Reid's notes. He shook his head.  
  
“I confess it still makes little sense to me.” Sean said instead.  
  
Doctor Swansea only nodded, “Yes. I should be the first to admit that The Tear of Angels sounds like more of a folk remedy than a treatment, but Jonathan assured me that it was efficacious. I understand he,” The doctor paused mid-flow, as if stumbling over the memory, “He learned that it had been administered as an effective cure, in the previous cases.”  
  
“Please, doctor. I lack for your education. Might there be a medical reason why he has not used it?”  
  
“Perhaps he is simply out of ingredients. They would be uncommon, to say the least.”  
  
Sean nodded to the truth of that. Blood from a pure heart and the blood of a king. Rare elixirs.

“Thank you Doctor Swansea. May God be with you, and keep you from harm.”  
  
“I certainly hope so, Mr Hampton.” He nodded and sat back down as Sean left, then added, “Oh, and also with you.”  
  
Even if it had been an afterthought, Sean was grateful for it.  
  
***  
  
Sunrise was frighteningly close. Sean could feel it, pink and warm just beyond the horizon. Even if he did not fall to exhaustion as heavily as vampires did, the light would still harm him.  
  
He could not be sure of his path. He could only trust in the light. He could only trust in the Lord. Besides, he could already tell that Doctor Reid was home.  
  
All that remained was to get inside. Perhaps the early nights of the disease would take the vampires more completely than they had taken Sean. Perhaps Jonathan would not allow Sean inside. Perhaps Jonathan would be asleep already, unable to answer.  
  
If that happened, he would return home. He had ample coverings, so long as no one stopped him and interfered. The Guard of Priwen were a rare sight these days. He might make it. He would try.  
  
If he had to.  
  
Swallowing hard, Sean approached the door to their house, and knocked as vigorously as he could.  
  


***  
  
Jonathan opened his eyes. Sunrise was an unpleasant pressure on the back of his skull. As he lay among the bedsheets he had torn and shredded in a fury, he could not imagine what had awoken him when he was so close to sleep.

Another knock at the door, insistent this time.

A soft voice. Irish. His Skal.  
  
He had come, in the end. That was good.  
  
Jonathan hissed when he realised the danger his Skal had put himself in. The sun was perilously high. Without further thought, he made his way downstairs. Fumbling slightly with the doorknob, he let him inside, keeping the door between his body and the vicious rays of pale light.  
  
There was little point returning upstairs afterwards. He only went as far as the sofa, lay back and closed his eyes.  
  
***  
  
“Doctor Reid. Please, I need you to stay awake. Please, just a little while.”

He opened his eyes again. It seemed he was on the sofa. The torn remnants of the sheets had been tucked around him. His gaze settled on the wide, tearful eyes and he understood. His Skal must be hungry.

“No, not that. Thank you, doctor.” His Skal whimpered softly, turning his face away from his master's torn wrist. His panting breath made a lie of the words and Jonathan woke a little more.

Just enough for the rage to seep in.

His Skal had come, but he was still wearing his cross. Jonathan growled and spoke, slow with his tongue so lazy in his mouth. “Stay.”  
  
His servant shuddered but obeyed, as Jonathan reached out and slid a claw beneath the thong.

Jonathan did not rip it away immediately. He needed to be sure that Sean understood; he had to see him accept this. Sean's hand brushed against his. The Skal bit his lip and winced, but nodded.

Jonathan purred with pleasure as he sliced through the rosary, letting the wretched thing fall away.  
  
He closed his eyes.  
  
**  
  
“Doctor Reid, please. I need to know about the Tear of Angels.” His Skal said, touching his face. The words drew Jonathan back up from the seductive dreams that had barely begun.  
  
“The Red Queen.” He snarled.  
  
“Yes. To keep her out.” Sean nodded, urgently.

“Too late, Sean.” Jonathan mumbled, “Far too late for me.”  
  
“Are you sure?”

The Skal's voice faded away.

A moment later, the room snapped back into focus as the rich, earthy aroma of blood tantalized Jonathan's nostrils. A wicked smile twisted his lips. His Skal had chewed on his own wrist and was offering himself to sate his Master's hunger.

The Skal shuddered as Jonathan's tongue slid along his skin, probing the wound open before his fangs followed. It was such a lazy luxury, feeding in the daytime; soothing a deep ache. Breaking off, he rewarded his servant with wordless sounds of praise, reaching out to stroke him under the chin.  
  
“Doctor Reid. Do you have blood of a pure heart, and the blood of a king?” His Skal asked, as he leaned into the caress. “If so, I will do anything you need. Only tell me how.”  
  
“Insulin too.” Jonathan grumbled, amused. “I never … I never liked garlic.”

He felt his Skal nod under his hand and let his eyes close. However, with the blood fresh on his tongue, he did not immediately fall sleep again.  
  
“Do you have the blood, Doctor Reid?”  
  
“No,” He hissed lazily, “All gone.”

“Is there any other way?” His Skal pleaded, his voice cracking.  
  
“No.” Jonathan hummed then paused, remembering. “Then again...Perhaps, Sean.”  
  
The Skal jerked his head up. The scent of pleasure wafted from him at the use of his name, as homely as the smell of fresh baked bread. Tickled by it, Jonathan reached for his pocket, and remembered that he was not wearing his coat.

“Look in the pocket.” As sunlight overruled even the tang of his Skal's blood, Jonathan fell softly back into the dreams, whispering. “My notes.”  
  
**  
  
Sean tried not to think about what most of the notes were written in, nor of the way the doctor had sometimes broken through the paper with the pressure behind the pen. It was not important now.

The doctor was in a great deal of pain. His written words revealed such anger inside him. Yet in these often illegible notes, there was talk of a cure.

Understanding the depth of the Ekon's pain, Sean had to recognise the true danger he was in. Yet, he did not fear death at Dr Reid's hands. If it came, it would come. He knew that Jonathan would not have meant to, but he was not himself.

What Sean feared more was the memory of the night by the pit. The night when he had been all-but lost in his own fever, not quite himself, as Jonathan roared, 'We are running out of time'.  
  
Did that mean, Sean feared, that there was only a short time in which the disease might be purged? If Jonathan could have cured allof the victims of the epidemic, if he could have made them Skals like him, Sean felt certain that he would have done. That meant that there was some window of time in which the disease could be halted, or held at bay somehow.

Sean chewed his lip. That time might be running out.

He was not a doctor, to create a cure. He was not a warrior, to capture both men. But he was himself and he would do whatever he could. Dr Reid's notes did not tell him what to do, but they told him that the doctor _was_ fighting back. They told him that he only needed help.

God would be with him in this.

Stroking the vampire's sleeping face, he brought his thumb to rest against the cold lips and pressed his thumb against the hidden fangs. As he felt the puncture, he asked softly. “What is 'inoculation'?”

The vampire brushed his hand away, and fell back into stillness.

Praying for God's forgiveness, he did what he knew he must do.

“Please, Jonathan. I serve you.” He told the sleeping vampire, running his warm hands over the cold skin, around his navel, under his shirt. “I will do whatever you need. Only tell me how.”  
  
The dark eyes flickered open; a bare slit between the eyelids, regarding him in red and black. In slow, rumbling tones, he asked, “Truly, Sean?”

 _God protect me._ “Yes, Dr Reid.” He said softly, fumbling to open the vampire's shirt. “You are my master. Let me serve you.”  
  
Sean might have wished that his words were pure deceit. Yet his loneliness and his hunger knew they were not. To gain the trust of this creature that was not quite Jonathan, Sean was opening himself to be bound to it as it was. That left only one option; he must succeed. He could only ask God to forgive and protect him, that he might remain a servant of the Lord always.

Jonathan's hand crept up to his and raised it to his lips, kissing.

“Can I inoculate you, Dr Reid?”

“You can't, Sean.” The vampire murmured. “Influenza.” He hissed, “It's volatile. Vicious.”

“What does that **mean**?” Sean pressed, but Jonathan was already slipping under again. “Please, teach me how, doctor. I want nothing more than to help.”

“It changed, somehow.” Jonathan growled a little under the words. “I was immune, before you.”

“I know.” Sean wept as the doctor confirmed all his worst fears. “Punish me for it, but first teach me how to help you now.”

Lazily, the vampire purred. “Blood of a King. Pure Blood.”  
  
“I know.” Sean said urgently, “But you do not have them.”  
  
“It's not what they said.” A little spark of anger coiled under the doctor's words. “Only poetry. Myths. Stories. Like God.”  
  
Sean pushed aside the hurt. Jonathan was sick and the disease was cruel. Before he could slip under again, Sean climbed up, laying his body against the vampire's. “What is it, truly?”  
  
“They were both infected.” Jonathan hissed, bitterly, his eyelids laying heavy again. “Completely. Fully symptomatic. Different strains. Same clade.”

The doctor had served in the war, Sean knew. Those labours were evident the pale swathe of muscles across his chest. Sean rested his cheek against them, laying his nose beside the cluster of dark hair at the centre.

He smelled of blood; oceans of it. Enough to drown the world.

“Teach me.” Sean urged, kissing the doctor's throat. “Tell me, please.”  
  
“Dead nerves for rabies.” Jonathan sighed, starting to become still. “A related strain for smallpox. It's all in my notes.”  
  
With those words, the doctor slipped under again. Sean tried to wake him but the doctor would not stir. Though he shook him, though he kissed him, there was no response. The sun was climbing, and Dr Reid had no fear of his Skal, no reason to wake at his touch... except... Sean thought of Geoffrey, and lifted his head to kiss his Master again. Lovingly, he took Jonathan's lower lip between his, tugging it gently into his mouth.  
  
As Jonathan had taught him, he must not fear himself. For all Sean knew, his bite would only make it worse. Yet, he could not think of another way.

Gently, reverently, he scored the pale flesh against his sharp teeth. As the intoxication unfolded like a flower opening in the sun, Jonathan stirred, kissing back against the pleasure and the blood.

“I do not know those words.” Sean said, when he could. “What must I _do_? What must I use?”  
  
As the doctor's hands rose from beneath the sheet, to cup around his buttocks, sliding him higher along his body, Sean tried again. “Please. What must I do?”  
  
The doctor's eyes were unfocused as he drew him close, rocking his hips against him, revealing his pleasure at Sean's company. Slowly, heavily, Jonathan hauled himself further upright, against the arm-rest, pulling him closer. Sean tried to resist the slow pull, but he may as well resist a landslide.  
  
The vampire's lips left his own and began to travel down his chin. Sean tried to catch them, but Jonathan knew what he wanted. A line of slow, hungry kisses marched, unstoppably, under his chin, under his jaw, to his throat.  
  
“Please.” Sean gasped at the hard press of Jonathan's fangs on his neck, at the hard press of his unfaithful erection against the doctor's stomach, at the hard press of Jonathan's against his backside. “What must I do?”

The ecstatic pain of his Master's bite drove all other thoughts out. Jonathan's power surged through his heart, compelling it to beat at his pleasure. Sean's spirit was being drawn up, up into that ravenous kiss. The draw was incredible.  
  
Too soon, he realised he could not feel his arms.

 _God, no!_  
  
He could not die here. Not now. The doctor was trying to fight. There was a way. He only needed help.  
  
Jonathan was barely awake, barely conscious of what he was doing. If he awoke later to learn that he had killed another he cared for, it would destroy what was left of him. The Red Queen would devour the rest and ride him into damnation. Countless others would die for Jonathan's grief.

_Please, don't!_

But Jonathan could not stop. God could not intervene. Those who would have saved him could not. They could only weep for him, for the love he knew they held for him. It was not fair that he should be the architect of so much pain, only because he had loved them in return. It was not _right_.

Sean's heart stuttered, like a bird struggling against the cold of winter, like a sparrow falling from the sky. He could not breathe.

Countless people who had never known Sean would weep because of his death, because he had not been able to save himself. His mind reeled, seeking solace, seeking guidance as the blackness closed in.

Sean ceased his pleading. Instead, he let himself go where he needed to, to that place in his head, where he could be what he was.  
  
The Skal bared its teeth and snarled.  
  
_Little children,_ said the book of John, _Let us not love in word or in talk, but in deed and in truth._

The little Skal drove his teeth, hard, into the vampire's neck. Skin split and flesh tore and he drew, pulled, drank the life he needed back into his body.  
  
He must survive this. The good work must go on.

  
***  
  
An endless, perfect circle.

Rage and peace. Satiation and hunger. Like a heartbeat. Like a tide. Around and around.

At the crest of each wave, Jonathan surfaced a little more.

As he circled, Jonathan stumbled across himself, finding a startling clarity like a mirror, like the golden buzz of alcohol before drunkenness set in.

He remembered it all.  
  
Jonathan could find peace with what he had done; it was no worse in character than he had done before. Sean might hope to Save him, but it was not possible. Jonathan had delighted too much in his damnation.

However... There would come a time, one day, when Geoffrey came up for air as he had. He would find no such peace. He would destroy himself rather than face what he had become, and so Jonathan's poisonous kiss would claim another victim. He would be alone.

In perfect clarity, Jonathan knew what he would become then. There would be nothing to live for but vengeance; a quest to destroy something he yet barely understood. Voracious as he was, without anyone to check or challenge him, it would only be a matter of time before his experiments generated a carrier, before some woman became an Ichor, became a Disaster, before it all began again, as it always did.

In the end, She would win.

Jonathan could not allow that.

As the golden moment of clarity passed, as the heady blood spilled once more into his throat and nudged him forward into a haze, he held one thought as certain.

It did not matter if he won, so long as She did not.

***  
  
At last, the relentless draw eased. Jonathan's grip slackened. Sean waited, seeing spiralling colours inside his eyelids as his jaw muscles crackled. He could not guess at how long they had been locked together.  
  
Jonathan withdrew his fangs. Sean used his hand to help pry his teeth out.  
  
They were both sticky, clothes stained with what their bodies had done while their minds were absent; an animalistic rutting with an obvious outcome. Sean was not ashamed.  
  
“Dr Reid?” Sean asked, sensing a subtle change in the hum beneath his touch.

“Yes.” Jonathan whispered, laying his head back, eyes glazed. “I'm here.”  
  
“Please,” Sean forced his aching jaws around the words, “How do I inoculate you?”

“You can't.” Jonathan sighed. “But you can save Geoffrey and he'll take care of me. Fetch my case. It's in the desk.”

Sean staggered up on wobbly legs, and moved as quickly as he could. The doctor sounded like himself. He might even be lucid now. Sean did not know how long it would last.

The doctor was sitting up, fighting the sun to stay conscious. His slender hands took the case confidently enough, though he wobbled and the needle veered wildly as he struggled to slot it into his own vein.  
  
“Help me, Sean.” His Master commanded.

Sean did his best, guiding the hand and the point of the needle. It was still clumsy, but the chamber filled.  
  
Sean listened then, as Jonathan outlined the next instructions. Sean returned with the two further vials and a few glass items of equipment.  
  
Jonathan did not leave the couch. All his efforts were focused on remaining awake.  
  
“This one is insulin.” The doctor told him, as he measured a dose and resealed the vial. “Keep it in the fridge until the other two are ready. It cannot be allowed to spoil.”  
  
“Take these.” The other two vials were filled with dark blood. The doctor's voice was darker still when he growled, “And neutralise them. After that, mix the three, and inject it directly into him. All of it. If you can administer it to a vein or artery, it will work faster. But if that is not possible, anywhere will do. All we are is blood, after all.”  
  
“How do I neutralise them?” Sean asked, fearful that the doctor would fall asleep again at any moment.  
  
Jonathan told him what he must do and Sean's heart ached. He did not understand. It was enough, though, that Dr Reid did. Sean would have faith in his medicine.  
  
“Sean.” Jonathan said at the last, “Do not come here again. I do not know what I will do when I realise what we've done. I do not know … if I will dislike it.”  
  
Now, Sean wept. The tears came as they always did, riding his heartache to the surface, pouring out as though he had sprung a leak which would not be sealed. He took the doctors hand and rested it upon his own head, pressing in with his fragile body weight.  
  
Jonathan's fingers flexed against his scalp, tenderly.  
  
It was the touch he had always wanted.  
  
“Do not give up, Jonathan.” Sean whispered. “I will not.”  
  
Jonathan turned his hand then, stroked it no less lovingly down Sean's cheek. The doctor was not repelled by the broken skin, or the hard scales of closed wounds. He touched them as he touched any part of Sean's body. Under that caress, Sean could do no less than face the truth between them.

“I love you.” Sean whispered, “Both sides of you, for both sides of me.”

Jonathan smiled. “I believe the feeling is mutual, my Saint.” His tone was warm though he was already slurring the words. “But do not forget. I _am_ a monster.”  
  
The hand fell away as Jonathan slipped under again. Sean could only lean up to kiss his closed eyes and whisper. “It is not all you are.”

He was exhausted too. All his Skal body wished to do was crawl into a dark corner and wait for sunset. Yet Sean had been more exhausted than this, so much of the time, when he was a man.  
  
Carefully, he covered his body against the sun and left to do his Maker's bidding.

***  
  
Sean firmly believed that God did not hold to the divisions His children laid amongst themselves. St Mary's was Church of England, not Catholic, but it did not matter.  
  
As he entered, for just a moment, he felt the warmth wash over him. Even shorn of his cross, he did not fear God's reproach. He understood His love better than that. Even so, his nerves tingled as he crossed the threshold, as if a layer of skin had been peeled away.  
  
It might have only been in his mind, but Sean had faith that it was not.  
  
Finding a place among the pews, Sean knelt to pray. He did not expect there to be any outward sign of his devotion, so he was not disappointed. After all, if God ever became irrefutable, then faith could no longer be a _choice_ and the Day of Judgement would come at last.  
  
The vials lay between his palms, warming slightly with his body heat.  
  


****  
  
  



	2. Turn out fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunter returns, the Saint strives, a trap is laid.

**  
** Alone in another house, Geoffrey dreamed again of his mother. Reaching out, as he had always wished he'd had the strength to do, he closed her eyes for her. She had deserved so much better than this. He curled around her still body and wept.

“Geoffrey.” His Da said, caressing the word lovingly. But that wasn't Da's voice. It was Reid's.

As he curled around her still body, his father moved behind him. His Da's eyes were the eyes of a dragon.

“You didn't have to do this.” Geoffrey snarled as he rose in a fury, small fists bunching. His voice was still high with youth but fangs sang down against his lips as he snarled. “You didn't have to.”

“Of course I did,” His Da... Reid... smiled coldly. “It's what I am.”  
  
Geoffrey sprang for him, closing his big hands around the vampire's head as he bowled him over.  
  
“No. You didn't!” Shouting, bellowing now, he tried to make him understand. “I wouldn't have.”  
  
He didn't want to hurt his Da. He had never wanted to hurt his Da before.

“Please.” His mother whimpered behind him. “Make him stop.”

Geoffrey smashed the monster's head against the floor, once, twice as the leech bucked and hissed. He kept going, as bone cracked and the beast screamed for him to stop. It felt good. So fucking good, as his mother urged him on.  
  
He could still save her.  
  
***  
  
The dreams dissipated with the sunset. All day they had tormented him, cycling endlessly. Sometimes, Carl arrived at the end. Sometimes, Carl shot him. There was never any love in his adoptive father's eyes; not when he saw the monster that his son had become.  
  
Once, he had _been_ Carl, and he had killed them both. That had been a good one.  
  
Now, he awoke, still trapped inside the body that he hated with the rapture of last night's feeding laying lustily upon him. His hand was already firm around his cock. He tightened it into a crushing, painful grip.  
  
Palm and fingers curling, he jerked at himself, driving onwards into the rough friction, drawing the skin down savagely with the fingers of the other hand. He rose under that counterpoint of pain, tormenting his own monstrous body. This body that he _hated_.

He was tightening already, bloated with so much blood that there was more than enough to go around.

Above all else, he hated the beast that had made him this thing. At the thought of his Maker, at the thought of turning this pain upon him, Geoffrey rounded out with two hard strokes and spurted messily onto the blood-soaked sheets.  
  
The evidence of last night's indulgence lay all around him, tainting the air with rot. His own skin was painted with crisp, dark splashes. Last night, he had sometimes paused to wonder at himself, at his monstrous thirst, and ask why he was doing this.  
  
Now, in the afterglow, his mind was clear. For months, he had been so muddled, so confused. He had been playing at happiness while being this evil, undead thing that he was. Obscene. He was made of no more than hate and hunger, hidden away under a pretty face.  
  
He could make his dreams real now. He had only needed to grow into his skin. He had been too weak, too deluded to take what he needed before. Now, he had, by the gallon.

Tonight, he could face the monster on an equal footing, and destroy him.

But first, he needed to collect the Skal. It would not be complete without him.  
  
***

Sean made his preparations. The thing-that-was-not McCullum would be back tonight, he was sure of it. Strength of conviction was something the two vampires had always had in common.

There was one person he could trust to save his asylum if the worst should happen; Lottie. She was a kind and generous soul who had found her purpose here, just as Sean had. Though she yet grieved for her sister, she had not permitted misplaced guilt to consume her. Now, she let it fuel her to aid others who might still be saved.

Sean was already exhausted, but this was the only time he had. As the sun set, they worked together, pulling down the clean, dry sheets in anticipation of the night's customers. He sought the words to share the truth she needed from him.

“A man may come tonight.” He told her, “And when he does, I must go with him. I might not return. If I do not,” He rested her hand against hers for a moment, “I would be grateful if you would take care of my flock... in my absence. If you'll accept, I would like to write a will, bequeathing this establishment to you.”  
  
“Mr Hampton.” She said, squeezing his fingers, “I will always be grateful for all you have done for me. If you need my help, with **anything** , you know you need only ask. So, of course, I will.”  
  
“Thank you Lottie. You are an angel.”  
  
She smiled demurely. “Oh, you know I'm not, Mr Hampton. I'm just another lost soul who decided to 'do'. But I do wish you wouldn't put yourself at so much risk. There are plenty of people who would be glad to go with you and keep you safe.”  
  
Sean swallowed, “There would be little they could do, Lottie. But your concern touches me deeply. Thank you.”

Lottie folded the next sheet with more vehemence than it warranted, shoving it down into the basket. She looked hesitant for a moment, then said,“Mr Hampton. I hope you don't think I'm a fool.”  
  
“Of course I do not.” He smiled, taken aback and puzzled.  
  
“Because we both remember Ichabod. He was such a gentleman, even if he had such strange notions.”  
  
Sean was surprised. It had been so long since he'd had cause to think of the kind-hearted vampire hunter. He hoped he was well, perhaps engaged in more pursuits more suited to a long and happy life. He hoped he yet lived, somewhere.

Sean said as much. Lottie smiled kindly back. Then, as if readying herself to take a leap of faith, she said, “You are a good man, Mr Hampton. But those men – Mr McCullum and Dr Reid – they are vampires, aren't they?”

At his sudden shock, she added, “Oh, don't look at me like that Mr Hampton. I might not be educated, but I see the little jobs Mr McCullum does around here, and I can count time as well as you can. Dr Reid is very pale and he only comes at night, and he can tell what is wrong with a person just by looking at them. If they are not vampires, they are something else, but I don't know what else they could be.”

“Yes.” Sean heard his own voice; light and airy. Saying it lifted a weight from his soul, “They are vampires.”  
  
Lottie nodded, considering. Her expression was patient and earnest, but concern returned to harden her kind eyes as she said, “Mr McCullum was very troubled last night.”  
  
Sean swallowed. “Yes, and I expect that he will be tonight as well. He is unwell. That is why I must go with him; to ensure he does no harm.”  
  
She nodded, “Now, I know you are not a vampire, Mr Hampton. But I can't help but notice you aren't wearing your cross.”  
  
Terror gripped him then, as his hand shot to the place it ought to have been. He must have left it in Dr Reid's house. God would forgive him, but could he protect him without it?

“Yes.” He said only. “I can not wear it tonight.”

Lottie only nodded, sadly. “I will do everything I can to look after everyone in your absence, Mr Hampton. But I will pray for your safe return. We all will, you know.”  
  
“If it is His will,” Sean said with conviction, “Then I would be glad to tell you what I know, when I can.”  
  
“May he guide and protect you then, Mr Hampton, and bring you home safe.”  
  
This time, the tears were happy ones.

**  
  
In the deep of the night, McCullum strolled up to the shelter, whistling through his teeth. The can of fuel sloshed and sang to itself on his shoulder.

“Sean.” He called, weighting his voice with sickly courtesy. “ _Come out, mo chara._ I don't want to hurt you.”  
  
That was a wee bit of a lie. But he didn't intend to hurt the Skal in the way he would expect, so it was close enough to the truth. He set the can down outside the door, close enough for the clang of metal to be heard inside.

Shifting his vision to the blood senses, he watched the little Saint come. As Sean placed his hand on the other side of the door, McCullum could hear him whispering, asking God for strength.  
  
McCullum rested his forehead against the cold metal and whispered back, “He's not listening, Sean.”  
  
A sharp intake of breath and the Skal jerked the door open.  
  
“Invite me inside, Sean.” He commanded.  
  
“No, Mr McCullum. But I will come out, if you swear not to hurt my flock.”

“I could swear it Sean, but it wouldn't mean much.” McCullum shrugged easily. “Never trust a leech.”  
  
He was what he was, what he had been made to be by Reid. Lies and hunger; little else. Sure enough, the time had come when he could no longer delude himself about that.

With a fang-filled smile, he added, “But if you don't come out, I swear I will.”

  
**  
  
Sean fought down his own righteous anger, knowing that he could not trust it. Instead, he did what he must, and trusted His love.  
  
“You are a bully. But I know I have no choice.” He lowered his eyes, deferentially. “I will come with you, Mr McCullum.”  
  
He took the step forward; the single step which took him past the threshold and put him entirely within the vampire's power. Behind him, he could hear Lottie soothing someone back to sleep. He might not be able to protect his flock forever, but he would do what he could tonight.  
  
Sean closed the door behind him and prayed he would live to open it again.  
  
“So,” The vampire tilted his head; an animalistic gesture he had come to expect more from Jonathan. “Not a Saint tonight.”  
  
He touched a finger to Sean's chest, where the cross ought to have hung. Sean only looked away and nodded, as the tears came unbidden. The vampire growled, low and angry.  
  
One huge hand closed on his chin. The other settled heavily on his shoulder. The thing-that-was-not McCullum forced him to meet his eyes. “Why are you crying, Sean?” The voice was barely louder than a whisper, but rage pricked the edges of every word. “You never cried with him.”  
  
“I was never afraid of him.” Sean answered.

“Then you were blind” It growled. “You'll see. Come on.”  
  
Discounting him as threat, the vampire turned his back. Sean's gnarled fingers closed around the medicine in his pocket.

He released it again and followed after the vampire. McCullum was much faster than he was, with reflexes honed over a lifetime. The Sad Saint would not have stood a chance. He could only pray for a better opportunity, while he let the disease lead him away from the shelter, away from the light and love there, on into the cold night.  
  
The silence was a torment. It was not that the disease was quiet. Indeed, it spoke from time to time, mostly of Jonathan and the acts they performed together, speaking cruelly of McCullum's submission to his Maker. The sinister silence lay in between the words. There was no easy banter, no light affection, no hearty laugh. No sign of the vitality of the man.

There was no love in this beast. It was that, rather than what it said, which turned Sean's stomach sour. Though it walked with an easy swagger, there was a brutish, vulgar quality to it now. The real McCullum wore his aura of sexuality as comfortably as a tiger wore stripes. This thing wanted the world to see, to know and fear its appetites.  
  
He could see no part of Geoffrey in it, not the least echo of compassion or the affection he had for his friend or his Maker. It was the demon, seven sins incarnate, using Geoffrey's body like a puppet.  
  
Sean had feared deeply that Lust had driven the creature to his doorstep. Now, he understood. It was not Lust, but Greed. The creature told tales designed to break Sean's faith in Dr Reid. Driven by some covetous urge, it wanted to own him. Not because of who Sean was, but simply because it did not own him yet.  
  
Or, perhaps, because Jonathan did... if Jonathan did.

Sean did not attempt to hide his disquiet. Indeed, it seemed to be what the disease wanted. It conceived no worse torment for him than the words and the silence. Indeed, it seemed to relax, letting him come ever closer.

It lead Sean over the river, into the West End, to a house he had not visited before. Lions perched on plinths outside it. The-thing-that-was-not McCullum broke into a warm smile as it knocked on the door.  
  
Sean edged closer to the vampire, as if nervous. He might _almost_ be close enough now.  
  
A young woman answered, moving with the lithe grace that belonged only to the immortals. She had an aspect of severity, with her tight black bun and grey tunic. Yet her dark features broke into a broad smile at the sight of them. “Oh, Geoffrey!”

“Evening lass.” The thing-that-was-not McCullum smiled easily. “I thought it was time you two met.”  
  
“Well, you must be Mr Hampton.” She seemed genuinely delighted as she stood aside to let them in. “Come in.”  
  
Sean suspected he knew her, even without an introduction. Her skin was too dark to be native but her accent was impeccably clipped. There was only one person she could be.  
  
“I am glad to have met you at last, Miss Ashbury.” Sean said dutifully. “Are you well?”

His mind raced. There had to be some way to warn her. But he had to do so without inviting violence from the disease. She did not smell as McCullum did, not yet. There might yet be something he could do.

“I'm very well. And you?” She said respectfully, slipping the door closed behind them. The inside of the manor was warm and bright, ruddy with all manner of crimson décor.

“I confess, I have been better.” Sean answered truthfully.  
  
She seemed to grasp that all was not as it should be. She glanced from Sean to her Maker, and back, her smile twisting as her eyebrows raised. “Dr Reid again?”  
  
The disease sighed, convincingly. “Reid's having a snit. Could you look after Sean a while?”  
  
“Of course, but -” When she glanced at Sean, he did the only thing he could and shook his head, minutely. This woman had no reason to trust him over her Maker, but perhaps he could alert her to what she might then see for herself.

“Thank you lass.” The thing-that-was-not McCullum cupped a hand around her head, and kissed her forehead. “I doubt I'll be long. Soon as I haul him in, I'll be back.”

Sean drew a sharp breath when he understood. It was going to leave, and the medicine was still in his pocket. Charlotte heard him inhale and glanced towards him, her eyes narrowing. “Are you – are both of you alright?”  
  
“I'll be fine, lass. Soon as I fetch him.” It said, seizing the doorknob.

Sean said the only thing that came to mind. He was ill-practised with deception. “Should I not come with you, Mr McCullum?”  
  
“No, Sean.” The disease flashed a predatory smile. “Stay here.”  
  
Sean steeled himself. The air around the vampire felt sickly, thick with evil, which was not the same as temptation, or even sin. Still, he entered that awful aura, resting a hand on his thick arm, saying, “Please, Geoffrey. I want to come with you.”  
  
The vampire knelt down, so that he looked up a little into Sean's face. “No, mo chara. _Stay here_.” The words clanged like bells as it smiled that horrible, hungry smile once more. “Charlotte'll take care of you.”  
  
“I understand.” Sean stepped close, bringing his hand up to stroke McCullum's rough cheek, to trace the hard cheekbones with his thumb. “But please do not be gone long.”  
  
The disease reached out, and cupped its hand under Sean's chin. Sean gasped, inhaling roughly as a wave of alien emotions flowered in his heart. Suddenly, he understood the nature of this oft-used gesture. It exposed his throat to the vampire. It made him entirely vulnerable; a physical expression of his true helplessness before this creature. Without any of the usual tenderness, the gesture was transparent; cold and cruel; a covetous act of domination.  
  
The disease smiled. “I won't.”

Now had to be the time, if ever. Sean leaned into that dreadful, dominating touch and yielded himself to it. When the disease took its hand away, satisfied, Sean stepped forward, wrapped his arms around the vampire's neck and embraced him. Only a quick hug that spoke of his fright and uncertainty. The disease chuckled and squeezed him back, occupying both of his huge hands for just a moment.  
  
With his own hands briefly coming together behind McCullum's back, Sean tugged the cap off the needle. As he stepped back, as his hands slid back, as the needle brushed McCullum's thick neck, he stabbed downwards.

The vampire jerked aside.  
  
He missed the vein.  
  
Sean was yanked upwards by his chin, his neck straining agonisingly. The vampire roared. Miss Ashbury gasped. Then Sean came crashing down, feeling something inside him _snap_ around something else. All breath was driven out of him. Black dots swarmed his vision.  
  
He heard the-thing-that-was-not McCullum snarling at Miss Ashbury, “ _Make sure he stays here._ And sit tight, leech. _You don't leave either._ ”  
  
The door slammed.

**  
  
Outside, McCullum yanked the needle from his shoulder. No telling what had been in the thing. Essence of garlic? Laudanum? Nightshade? No, he could only smell his own blood.  
  
Holy water? No, it didn't burn. Then again, like Reid, McCullum was no ordinary vampire. He tossed the needle away. This worked better anyway. Reid would be sensing Sean's fear and pain, even now. He would join the dots.

With a quick twist, he raised the amulet from his neck. Just for a moment; long enough for Reid to sense him, long enough to _feel_ McCullum's rage and hunger.  
  
Then down again.  
  
The trap had been baited. Nothing to do now but wait. This time, McCullum would be ready. There would be no physical contact; no chance for the beast to exploit their bond and rob him of self-control. Soon, Sean would see exactly what Reid was really like when his progeny chose their own way. The Skal might even help him finish his maker off, after that.


	3. Blinded by rage

“Mr Hampton, can you hear me?”  
  
He could hear her, but he couldn't answer. His voice came out as a breathless wheeze.  
  
“I... I can tell that you're very badly hurt, Mr Hampton. I know that vampire blood can heal you but... I know you do not like to drink it. Do you mind if I give mine to you?”  
  
Sean tried again, but the wheeze choked off in a liquid gurgling.  
  
“Oh, to hell with this.” She said.  
  
The glorious aroma of Ekon blood filled the air.  
  
 _No._ Sean thought. He must not bite her. Not her as well.  
  
When she held it to his lips, he pinched them tight together and tried to turn away. The small movement woke the pain in his chest again and he gasped. She tried to slip her wrist into his briefly opened mouth and he only just managed to close it again.  
  
“Mr Hampton, please. I'm not a doctor. I can't help you any other way.” She sounded frightened as she said, “You're bleeding inside."

The precious liquid was smeared across his lips, encouraging him, tempting him. The elixir he craved. The elixir he needed to live. Unbidden, he grunted; an animal sound that shamed him.  
  
He could not.

With his hands, he tried desperately to gesture, to make her understand. A cup, perhaps? Something, anything that did not bring her into contact with his disease. Whatever understanding she gleaned, she did at least let him clutch her bloodied wrist.  
  
That would be enough, he thought, as he smeared his fingers in the precious, vital fluid and brought those to his lips instead. All higher reason departed as he licked them clean.  
  
It was not enough. The pain sparked, knitting in places, but not enough. But now a cup was being forced into his lips and oh, merciful God, blood poured into him and took the place of the pain.  
  
The wonderful fog closed in and he could not fight it.

He could not warn her.  
  
**  
  
No.

He had to warn her. He must.  
  
The Sad Saint fought back against his own body's wish to subside. Floundering, dragging himself back he found his own voice and bit out the words.

“He's coming.”

He managed to open his eyes again. His shirt was all-over blood; his blood. Charlotte looked alarmed, but uncomprehending.  
  
He tried again, forcing out the words. “Dr Reid. He's coming.”  
  
The ethereal sense of his Maker had shifted into a crushing pressure. Dr Reid was on his way, sensing his pain, outraged by his suffering. He had felt this only once before, and that time Geoffrey McCullum had picked him up and fled to a place far from anyone else the doctor could hurt in his misplaced anger.

The doctor had not been sick then. How much worse might it be, now?  
  
“Is he protective of you?” Charlotte asked, blinking in uncertainty and confusion.  
  
“He was.” Sean shook his head. “Now, he is possessive of me.”  
  
Charlotte jerked away and stood as if to flee, took a step then glanced around her, confused. “I... I cannot leave.” She said, kneeling down again. “Geoffrey told me not to leave.”  
  
“You must.” Sean pleaded.  
  
“I cannot, Mr Hampton.” Her eyes were wide with terror. “Geoffrey is my Maker. I cannot leave. I cannot let you leave.”  
  
The horror of their situation fell upon them both.  
  
And Sean understood what the disease had wanted.  
  
“Do you have a crucifix?” He asked, unlikely though it was.  
  
She started to shake her head, then stopped. In a gasp of shadows, she vanished upstairs, then called him to come.  
  
Stumbling in the lingering haze, he was barely to his feet when he heard the window shatter.  
  
**  
  
Jonathan roared as the glass rained down around him.  
  
 _How DARE she._  
  
Geoffrey's Get dropped to the floor at the instant of his arrival. Her head bowed and tilted; her arms loose, giving every show of absolute submission that she could.  
  
But he _knew_ what she had done. He could smell Sean's blood on the air.

He ripped the wooden rail from the shattered pane. It was too slender a sliver to utilise as a stake, unless he made room for it first. Easier to rip her head off, but he wanted to look into her eyes and be sure that she _understood_. She had dared so much; dared to take a small part of Geoffrey from him, dared to try to take Sean from him.

He had been so very patient with her before now. The ungrateful, wretched child.

“Lady Ashbury,” Jonathan growled, filling the words with all his hatred for another of that name. Lady Ashbury, the carrier. Lady Ashbury, the coward.  
  
Lady Ashbury, the _bitch_.  
  
“Doctor Reid, please. Geoffrey made me.”  
  
“I know he did.” He snarled. Remarkable, how she could be so obstinately oblivious to her wrongdoing. It must take a conscious effort to be so devoid of empathy.  
  
“No,” She pleaded, “I mean he made me stay here. I would have left. I didn't mean to.”

“Then,” Jonathan hissed softly, “I will punish him, after.”  
  
**  
  
Sean stumbled, forcing himself desperately upwards, clinging to the bannister to stay standing. His legs still did not quite wish to obey him, but they must. He had to reach them in time.  
  
He could hear them now. Charlotte's voice was high with desperation. The other voice was alien to him. The words sounded like the Doctor, but that was not Jonathan's low baritone; not his warm, throaty rumble. The thing-that-was-not Jonathan snarled and brushed off Charlotte's pleading as though it were nothing to him.  
  
This manor was huge. Sean staggered after the voices and clung to the door to hold himself upright. For a moment, he feared he was already too late.  
  
Moving too quickly to follow, like a racing shadow, Jonathan leapt upon her. She whirled in his grip, twisting dark streamers of smoke until her body hit the wall with a dull thump. She was dragged upwards, tearing the red paper.  
  
Sean realised in horror that Jonathan had hooked clawed fingers through the flesh of her throat. She was clinging to his hand with her own, desperately hoisting her weight up to keep the wound from tearing wider. Ekon blood saturated the air, drawing a faint mewling sound from his own lips.

Hearing it,the thing-that-was-not Jonathan growled. “Stay there, Sean.”

It was not a Command and this was not Jonathan. He did not have to obey it.  
  
Charlotte screamed through clenched teeth as the disease drove Jonathan's other hand into her stomach. Sean lurched into motion.

There was no sign of the crucifix. No open drawer or clear shelf where Charlotte might have found it. Yet, Sean knew the truth of the Lord's love. He had spent too many years being told that faith was found only in convention, before he had understood that the priests were only men as well; as flawed as he was. A sanctified cross was only another token. The truth was universal.

_Therefore, put on the full armor of God, so that when evil comes, you shall be ready to stand your ground and – after you have done all else – to stand._

“Doctor Reid.” His voice was weak, so he filled it with the strength of his faith. “Jonathan, stop!”

The thing-that-was-not Jonathan ignored him, intent it seemed upon prising Charlotte's chest open. In the same hand, he held a fragile wooden spoke. He was working it in, twisting, manoeuvring it after his fingers. Charlotte could no longer even scream. The smell of blood was _everywhere_.

Sean had no authority over the Doctor, or the disease. But God did, and he would hear Him, if only he tried.  
  
Snatching up the broken pieces of window shutter, he brought two together in a crude cross and began. He knew the words. They didn't matter, but he used them anyway. “ _Anima Christi, sanctifica me. Corpus Christi, salva me.”  
  
_ The vampire stopped what he was doing, and turned to look at him.

“ _Sanguis Christi, inebria me.”_

Jonathan tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow, listening.

“ _Aqua lateris Christi, lava me._ ”  
  
“Sean.” The thing-that-was-not Jonathan smiled, amused and indulgent. “You can not exorcise me.”  
  
Sean broke from the incantation. The words didn't matter. “I'm not trying to exorcise **you** , doctor.”  
  
“Then what, Sean?”

“The demon.” Sean pleaded. “This wrath is not you. Please, doctor, try to remember. You drove her out once before, with poor old Harriet.”  
  
As the-thing-that-was-not Jonathan shook its head, losing patience and dismissing him, Sean stepped forward.

“ _O bone Jesu, exaudi me._ _Passio Christi, conforta me.”_  
  
 _“Enough,_ Sean.” The disease said, wrapping its sickly tendrils around his mind. “ _Be quiet_.”  
  
Sean's voice faltered and shrank but he did not stop. “You must not listen to the anger, doctor. It's not you. It's her.”  
  
“ _Be silent now_.” The disease Commanded, and Sean's voice choked off. Yet Jonathan remained looking at him, contemplative.  
 _  
_A moment later, Charlotte fell away too as the doctor released his hold. She slid to the ground and to her knees. She did not say a word. She did not fight nor try to flee. She did not even try to cover her wounds but adopted the same posture as before; head down, arms spread, chin tilted to expose her neck.  
  
Neither vampire moved.  
  
They remained that way, both so still that they might have become statues. Sean felt himself clumsy, unwholesome, inadequate, comparing their perfect stillness with his fluttering heart and ragged breath. Sean held his faith close and trusted.

Jonathan turned away from her. They were in such close quarters. It took him only two steps to slip his smooth hand, lovingly, under his Skal's chin.

Sean knew what this gesture meant now, but he received it gladly. He did not mind. There was love in it.  
  
His Maker growled, low and inhuman, “I will not let Her win.”

Sean exhaled at last, leaning in. “I know.”  
  
The grip suddenly locked. Sean flinched, not meaning to, but fearing the disease would wrap that loving hand around his throat and choke the life from him.  
  
It did not. Jonathan snarled, his hand yanked away as some invisible arm wrenched his shoulders back and dragged him up onto his toes. The veins stood out upon his arms.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” The thing-that-was-not McCullum crowed, as it came through the window.  
  
***  
  
Jonathan's rage returned sevenfold. _How DARE he._  
  
“Geoffrey, I'm alright.” Charlotte cried out. “It's alright.”  
  
McCullum stepped close, smirking, his sword already drawn. Jonathan could just about see him, out of the corner of his eye. This was a level of control over the blood that his Progeny had never shown before. He would regret testing it on his Maker.  
  
“Doesn't matter, lass.” McCullum growled as he pinned the tip against his Maker's shoulder joint.

Jonathan could feel the slight pressure, feel McCullum adjusting the angle for some precise stroke. Whatever McCullum did next would be irrelevant. The instant he broke the skin, Jonathan would be free and his retribution would be _unholy.  
  
_ McCullum drove in and levered.

 _“Down, Sean.”_ Jonathan commanded.  
  
Giving in to the ecstasy of it, he indulged his bottomless rage. Shoulders cracking, bones splitting, muscles erupting from their accustomed positions, he slipped the noose and tore into all and sundry, savaging anything that was made of meat and blood, anything that had not prostrated itself before him.  
  
With a rush, he was back in his own body, lunging for the Hunter's throat. Geoffrey met him, wrenching the sword sideways to haul Jonathan bodily over his head. His progeny had barely staggered under the barrage. Even now, he was healing. That was not _normal_.

 _So,_ He thought wickedly, twisting away as Geoffrey tried to slam him into the wall. _You've finally accepted what you are._

“Geoffrey, stop. Something's wrong with him.” Charlotte cried as Jonathan launched from the wall and drove his claws into McCullum's throat.

Except that only one set of claws obeyed. Abruptly, Jonathan realised that his left arm was hanging, limply, trailing in his sleeve. That had been the purpose of Geoffrey's butcher's cut. He would _pay_ for that.

They grappled furiously, flesh tearing, blood spraying. _This_ was the place Geoffrey hated him to be. Inside sword-reach, intimate and personal. Geoffrey miscalculated and Jonathan raked a talon across his face, catching his eye, purring with satisfaction as it burst.

As he forced Geoffrey down at last, bearing him to the ground, Jonathan sought for the amulet. Of course, his Progeny had hidden it. It was his only real protection and he _cowered_ behind it always.

As he tore loose chunks of fabric and flesh, slowed by his missing hand, the shadows around him hissed and sputtered. Cold tendrils wrenched him away from his prize. He snarled, trying to tear at the fog even as he braced himself for the strike.

It drove into him; jagged and burning cold. A spear that cut so much deeper than flesh. Deeper than any pain he had felt in either life.

Jonathan did not roar. He screamed.

“I've waited so long to hear that, beast.” His Progeny laughed, jeering as he leapt to his feet and drove in again.

Geoffrey caught him with a long, raking slash. Jonathan went with the impact, sweeping alongside and springing clear, snarling as he sent blood to the severed limb.

His Progeny was an arrogant child. He might have learned to counter Jonathan's strengths, but he didn't yet know all his Maker could do.

Calling up his blood around him, spitting a wordless insult, Jonathan leapt backwards, shattering the balustrade like kindling as he dropped down. Upstairs was Geoffrey's arena; open angles to fire from, narrow gantries that defied attempts to circle and flank him.

So Reid led his errant Progeny downstairs.

***

As the two vampires exploded out of the room and into the main house, Sean staggered up from his position shielding Charlotte.

       
“We must stop them.” He gasped, but Charlotte caught his wrist.
    
    “It's alright.” She assured him, her expression earnest, her voice gentle. “This is just what they're like. Best thing we can do is stay out of the way.”  
  
“No. They're both sick.” Sean shook his head and pulled her to her feet, “Like I was. It..” He couldn't recall the medical words. “It boils the mind. They won't stop.”  
  
“But..” Charlotte's eyes widened, then she looked pained. “Then I don't know what we _can_ do.”
    
    “We must try.” Sean said, as Geoffrey screamed this time, overruled by Jonathan's roar of triumph. The air was saturated with Ekon blood, making him feel fearless and light. “We can only try. Please, where is the crucifix?”
    
    Looking down from the shattered balustrade into the whirling fury of shadows, fangs and blood, as cabinets exploded and statues tumbled, he was grateful for the courage of his faith.  
  
**
    
    Reid was a clever dick, but he wasn't clever enough. That shield thing was a new trick for him, but McCullum had seen it before. Reid couldn't keep it up forever, he just had to wait it out and strike before Jonathan realised it was gone.
    
    Experience and power would tell. McCullum drove the pommel into his Maker's nose, driving fragments of bone into that clever brain. The leech whirled, disorientated, momentarily blind and McCullum raised his sword for another heavy swing.
    
    “Geff, don't!” Charlotte cried as she leapt on him, tackling him about the shoulders.
    
    _Bitch!_
    
    McCullum shredded her throat as he threw her off. The betrayal stung but he didn't have time for it, as Reid flung a spiralling spear of ichor into his chest. The leech was on him instantly, fangs bared, driving for his neck. He blocked the lunge with his sword, supporting the blade in both hands, slicing his own fingers and relishing the pain.  
  
Getting his feet under his maker, he kicked him off, seized that sense of his Maker's blood and clenched what was left of his fist. Reid's body locked in place, holding him helpless, just as he had held him _too goddamn many times._  
  
When he drove in, Sean interfered. The light blazed across, scorching and sapping them both, freeing Reid but driving them both back to shelter. Finding himself in another room, McCullum healed quickly and was ready when Reid came for him, exploding through the wooden partition.  
  
***  
  
Sean was shouting but the vampires weren't listening. He didn't even know if they could hear him over the cacophony they were making.
    
    He was too slow, too clumsy. He had no chance against these seething shadows. He couldn't check their rage himself. He could only try to reach them. He could only try to slow their fight long enough to register. If they could only remember, for even an instant, they might check themselves. If they did that, they might not kill each other.
    
    Stumbling, he ran after them, into the maelstrom, raising his fragile cross against the swirling, razor-sharp darkness.
       
This time, McCullum back-handed him. The force was incredible, flinging him into the air. The piano sang as he hit it, but did not break under his fragile weight as he slid off and sprawled on the floor.
    
    Charlotte was slumped alongside him, not moving, seeming dead. He could only pray she wasn't. He could only hope she would forgive him as he cupped his hand under her bloodied neck and took what he needed to get back up and try again.  
  
This time, it was the doctor who drove him back with a snapped phrase of command, no less forceful than the violence. Sean was forced to obey at first, but he rallied himself and drove forward again.  
  
Sean no longer knew what he hoped to accomplish. He was only certain that if he could break the momentum of this fight, it would give the men a _chance_ to win through.
    
    ***  
  
The Skal kept interfering. Geoffrey didn't want to kill him. Once Reid was dead, he wanted to have Sean at his side. Sean had been a champion of justice, like him. The sinners needed to see the Saint turn on them in judgement. Sean just couldn't understand his role yet. He was too much in love with the monster.  
  
Poor fool. He was just another victim. Geoffrey had been like that, not long ago.  
  
Trapping Geoffrey's arm and making a vicious twist, Reid managed to disarm him and Sean leapt for the sword, trying to drag it out of reach. Geoffrey raked him aside, claws turned out to catch meat this time. Sean gasped in pain and crumpled, holding himself together with his hands.
    
    Clenching his fist again, he locked Reid down, savouring the sight of the helpless monster. This time, he didn't strike for him. This time, he went to Sean instead.  
  
The last few passes, Reid had kept trying to drive in for his neck. It was obvious he was running low on juice. Now was the time to push him over the edge.
       
As Sean struggled to get up, Geoffrey closed his hand on the Saint's shoulder. His unholy pale eyes were filled with terror and bright with pain. Sean was bleeding. Geoffrey would fix that.
    
    As he opened his wrist and forced the Skal's head to the wound, pinning it until he latched on, he turned to Reid. With a smile like a shark, he snarled, “Mine.”  
  
**  
  
Reid was incandescent. All reason abandoned him. He would rip the smile from Geoffrey's face with his _teeth._  
  
His cowardly, wretched progeny fled away from him. Jonathan followed on his heels, through the window and barely registered the pain looping his limbs until the razor wire drew taught.
    
    The agony only fuelled his rage. As his arms and legs were shredded, he gave into that sweet ecstasy once more, bursting free of his skin, biting and tearing, lost to the battle lust, consumed by the pleasure of his Progeny's pain.  
  
Back in his skin, Jonathan tore free and lurched to his feet.
    
    And fell.
    
    Confused, he sent blood to his legs to heal them, and had none to give to the wound. The world faded into grey, became blurry and distant, he gasped for air though he had no need to breath.  
  
“Should have minded your temper, beast.” Geoffrey snarled and struck.  
  
**  
  
Sean stumbled into the front door, reeling with the potency of Geoffrey's blood. Working at the handle with fumbling hands, he got it open and froze in horror.
    
    Geoffrey held Dr Reid's body aloft, grinning horribly as his Maker gasped for breath. Dismembered limbs scattered the ground, but Jonathan was still alive... impossible though that seemed.
    
    “Please.” Sean wheezed, gasping raggedly. “Please don't. You – you,” He faltered as the-thing-that-was-not McCullum turned that remorseless gaze upon him. “You are not well.”  
  
“Ha!” The disease crowed. “Did he say so, Saint? He's good at getting inside your head.”  
  
Sneering, the thing-that-was-not McCullum turned and threw Jonathan down at Sean's feet.
       
“Look at him now without all the pretty little lies.” The disease said. “That's what we are underneath it. Blood and hunger, nothing more.”  
  
Sean did look. His Maker's eyes were glassy, fangs standing out like bone knives against the dry, pale lips. He was gasping, convulsively, though he needed no air. If only Sean could give Jonathan some of his blood, he might be able to escape.
       
But no, the disease was watching him, glowering like a great black beast. The disease would not allow him to help. The disease did not want pity or compassion. It wanted only one thing. Sean had already given his life once to the service of God, he would not fear doing so again. God forgive him, but he must sin to save.  
  
Sean drew his faith close, shielding the fluttering candle of his courage, letting the flame stretch and grow to light his way. Anger begat anger. Fear begat fear. But love...
    
    “I do not see it, Mr McCullum.”  
  
“Then you're blind, Saint.”
    
    Ignoring Jonathan, he went to the-thing-that-was-not McCullum. The thing that coveted him so. Both of them; the vampire and disease, which wanted him for their own, only because he was not.  
  
“I'm not a Saint. It is only a nickname.” Sean said quietly, “And you have won, Mr McCullum.”  
  
The disease laid its hand under his chin. God have mercy, but Sean leaned into it; a deceiver, accepting the caress, giving praise with his soft silence. The alien sensations bloomed in his heart again; his traitorous body welcoming the touch of the victorious Ekon.
     _  
Wherefore, my beloved, flee from temptation._  
  
“Are you mine Sean?” The thing growled.  
  
 _No other Gods before me.  
_  
Sean could not stop this creature, but Jonathan's cure _could_. If Sean had not been such an imperfect instrument, if he had not missed the artery, the devil would not be here now. Sean had faith in the medicine. He needed to hold it close.  
  
 _Lost are those who pray to idols who can not save._  
  
“I am afraid of you.” Sean whispered.  
  

    The infection was angry. It was always angry. The grip on his chin became hard, bruising, creaking where his jaw met his skull.  
  
“You're still not afraid of him, are you?”  
  
“No.” Sean gasped, as the grip tightened further.  
  
“He would have killed the girl, just because she was there and I wasn't there to stop him.”  
  
“But he didn't.” Sean insisted, becoming more certain of his path. “He has never done me true harm.”  
  
“Then he hasn't had the time, _mo_ _chara.”_  
  
“I do not believe that.” Sean lied. “I know Jonathan will never harm me.”  
  
The infection snarled, and threw him down. The pavement punched the air out of Sean's chest and he could only heave helplessly as the thing-that-was-not McCullum dragged Jonathan's corpse away.
    
    Sean prayed. He thought he would know if Jonathan were killed; that he was sure to feel it in some way, that he would sense the ending of the ethereal presence.  
  
When McCullum returned, Jonathan was still there; somewhere. The disease hauled the Saint to his feet by his shirt collar. Perhaps he could slip away... But, no. It took Sean away from the Manor, giving him no chance to flee, giving him no chance to consider it. It did not let Sean out of its sight again.  
  
For the rest of that horrible night, it kept him very, very close.
       
***  
  
After Geoffrey had left, Reid took a long breath. There wasn't anything else he could do. Arms and legs were broken or severed. There was no human or even animal life within range for him to call into himself to heal. He was gagged, so that his screams would not be heard. None of his progeny would reach him in time, even if he called them.
    
    When the sun rose, Jonathan would be forced to watch it creep along the roof towards him; a line of marching fire. No one would find him. He would burn all day, and never die. The metal stakes planted in his shoulders and stomach were painful, but not as painful as the sun would be.

    His Progeny had followed through on his long-time threat and he had done it well.  
  
Staked out on the roof for sunrise.
    
    This, Jonathan knew, was going to hurt.  
  
***  
  
Sunrise came, as the Lord commanded.  
  
  



	4. Mercy for the Merciful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunter comes up for air.

A body burned, while another mended.  
  
Blood into blood; the serum spun down his veins. A chord was struck; a note like fire as his Maker twisted, as bones cracked, as the stillness of death came at last like a mercy. Blood into blood as the vampire slept. Blood into blood as the rough music died.

Blood into blood, until sunset came.  
  
Mended by the falling of night, blood sought a pattern and drew together into flesh. Shifting, at war with the damage done, seeking the state which could not be called 'alive' but might just be considered 'whole'.  
  
Blood crept together as hunger restored its illusory veil; a face you might welcome, a smile you might return, a call you might answer.  
  
They opened their eyes at the same time.  
  
McCullum remembered _everything_.  
  
Jerking awake, he sat up and gasped air, as if trying to snatch back his flimsy facade of humanity. He fought to shake off the nightmare, knotting his fingers in the sheet wrapped around his waist.

He knew this feeling.  
  
It hadn't been a nightmare. It hadn't been a dream. It had been real.

He didn't need to look down. He knew that his hands would be coated in a cracked, black layer of dried blood. He knew that his lips were dusted with the same.

It wasn't the first time he'd felt this. It was only the first time he'd felt it as a vampire.  
  
It happened sometimes, after a hunt went wrong. Something always happened to kick it off. Maybe someone would die in front of you, or you'd realise how bad the odds were when it was too late to turn back. At times like that, the mind _moved,_ shifting your reality three steps to the side. It did that to cope, because it was the only way to carry on.  
  
Except, the mind was a fickle thing. It didn't always move back after the event. You might _think_ it had, carrying on and never noticing that you weren't quite you. It might carry on for days. It might carry on for months.  
  
When it ended, there was no fanfare. Just, one day, you'd open your eyes and realise they'd been closed. You'd wake up and realise that you hadn't been around for a while, but you were back now.  
  
As if you'd been staring at the surface of the water and didn't know you'd been on the wrong side until you broke through and found air.  
  
When you woke up, there was no denial. You remembered it all, only as if it had happened long ago. It was only a little more effort to remember, but you could.

Just like this.  
  
McCullum turned, feeling numb. Last night, he'd tied Sean up sled-dog fashion; the way you had to do for Skals. It meant binding their hands and tying them by a collar at the end of a stick, so they couldn't twist around and get their teeth into the rope.

The Skal was still tied, awake, watching him silently. His bright eyes were wide and reproachful, as Geoffrey dropped down to one knee. By the tangled, filthy look of the bindings, Sean had done his best to work free. It hadn't worked. McCullum was too good at his craft.

McCullum forced the words out; a harsh whisper on a ragged breath. 

“I'm sorry.”  
  
Sean nodded and turned his eyes silently away. The little man didn't flinch or draw back, but waited for McCullum to dig out the knots he'd pulled tight with his struggling. As soon as he'd opened them, he stepped back.

“I need to go.” McCullum said, hoarse and still numb. “Reid.”  
  
The Skal nodded. He didn't meet McCullum's eye but only unwound the rope from his bruised skin. McCullum didn't pause to dwell on it. There wasn't time. He darted out of the back door.

The evening air was soft with spring rain; a little warmth creeping in as the wind came up from the south.  
  
**  
  
The rooftop was empty.

One metal stake was still embedded in the tiles, cracking the slate, slick with blood. Around it sprawled a charred stain and cracks like spider-webs in the stone. McCullum touched his fingers to it. It was cold; many hours old.

It looked like Reid had hauled himself off when the night had restored him. One bloody footprint was smeared nearby, recognisable even blurred by the rain.  
  
McCullum had arrived too late.  
  
In truth, he was about nine hours too late.

Too late to spare Reid this, too late to stop this madness. He'd used sunlight to break leeches before. None of them were ever the same after. Of course, he'd threatened it often enough. But he could never have... He ought never have...  
  
Whatever had possessed him to do this was gone now. The rage had burned out as quickly as it had come. The consequences remained. 

A thick bead of blood slid from his cheek to splatter amid the raindrops. McCullum wiped his face before more could fall.

There wasn't much blood to follow, of course. But there would be enough.  
  
He had to find him.  
  
**  
  
The first corpse was easy enough to find. Starving from the sun, it looked like Reid had taken the first person he came across. After, he'd stripped what clothes he needed and stashed it behind the bins.  
  
From there, the trail became harder to follow. McCullum had a starting direction, but lost it in the tangle of backstreets between the West End and Whitechapel. In the end, McCullum turned to his blood for the answer. It always drew him to his Maker, sooner or later. The vampire hunter walked without direction, without feeling, picking his turnings on a whim, moving back and forth across the trail, listening for the answering call.

Cold.  
  
He crossed the river, back and forth as the night wore on, chasing the whisper. Reid would go to ground soon enough, he was certain. They always did.

By nine o'clock, he found himself back near Whitechapel, circling.

Warmer.  
  
All night long, the hunger paced alongside him. At first, it had been no more than a tingle and a murmur as the late evening crowds brushed by. Now, though the streets were emptier, it peppered him like rain in a thunderstorm. Every heartbeat seemed to fight for his attention; every pulsing crimson star flashed and beckoned.  
  
Geoffrey grit his teeth and tried to get a grip. He'd known the hunger would be worse. He could control it.  
  
Easier said than done. He did it anyway.  
  
There. A door, tucked away at the bottom of stairs greasy with filth. It had been broken inwards, too well for any human to have done it. He sniffed, and caught the smell of opium.

Warmer. 

It was an opium den, alright. Those were rare enough these days. One glance told him this one didn't put in any more effort than the clientele required. The man inside tried to stop him entering, insisting that they were closed, but McCullum bit back his sharp retort when he looked into the man's eyes.  
  
Instead, he treated the man gently, sitting him down on his stool before he moved on. The man didn't try to get up again. All he could do was insist that the den was closed. His mind was broken.

Reid was here alright.  
  
The opium covered the smell of blood, and kept the rest of the herd placid despite the bodies in their midsts. McCullum lightened his step, advancing carefully, refusing to let the quiet lure him into complacency. Some leeches raved. Others lost their minds and simply stopped, waiting, like a spider lurking in a crack. 

He found his Maker at the back.

The doctor was draped in a chair. There was an addict across his lap. The man was alive still, dreaming whatever the poor sods dreamed. He dreamed on despite the slashing cut on his arm, despite the vampire lapping serenely at it, killing him by inches as he slept.  
  
Only Reid could look classy in a state like this; dark hair moulded by the rain, stolen overcoat draped over his shoulders. He looked unkempt, but in a roguish fashion; disarming and deadly.  
  
“Reid?” His throat squeezed the word to a whisper.  
  
No response. Reid only lapped at the cut, gently, obsessively, cradling the arm in his hands. Glassy eyed and dreaming opium dreams, he looked for all the world like a cat taking milk.

Reid was stoned.

Geoffrey searched for the words as he came forward and moved the poor bastard out of Reid's lap. His Maker looked a little petulant about that, but he settled back when Geoffrey touched his face.  
  
“You in there, beast?”  
  
His Maker's eyes did not even flicker. Geoffrey rested their foreheads together.

“I'm so fucking sorry.”  
  
God, but Geoffrey hated to cry in front of the bastard. If anything was enough to make an exception though, it was this. At least it got a reaction. Reid closed his eyes and crooned; a wordless, intoxicated sound of concern and affection, resting his cold hands against McCullum's cheeks.

Reid didn't open his eyes when he moved back. Possibly, Reid didn't even realise he was actually there.

Geoffrey unclipped the wooden stake and stared at it for a long time. It shouldn't be like this. But the room was littered with bodies and McCullum knew it was nothing compared to what he'd done himself these last few nights.

Perhaps, if Reid had been fighting, he'd have tried to take him alive. Like this, it was impossible to ignore the truth. They were done. Geoffrey had been the one to break them in the end. But this was the truth of what vampires were. They had delayed it as long as they could, but the time had come. That it had been his fault didn't matter.  
  
“I'm sorry.” Geoffrey said again as he closed his fist around Reid's shirt. It didn't cut it, but it was close enough.

Opening his eyes, Reid only nodded distantly and tilted his head back, offering his neck.  
  
“No Reid.” Geoffrey said hoarsely, recognising the offer for what it was. “I don't want it. I want out. No more of this.”  
  
Reid dropped his chin and nodded, as if he understood. He probably didn't.  
  
Geoffrey wanted so badly to shout at him. He wanted to feel even a fraction of the rage he'd felt last night. It wasn't fair that they'd come this far, only to wind up like this. But life wasn't fair. At least they'd go together, daft though that was as a comfort.

He rested the sharp tip of the stake over Reid's heart. He'd do him first, then himself somehow.

Reid's tongue moved thickly in his dry mouth as he tried to remember what words were. Geoffrey waited.  
  
Eventually, Reid remembered how and slurred, softly, “Sean.”  
  
Reid's eyes were still unfocused. No scheming or pleading in them.

But he was right.  
  
Geoffrey couldn't end it here. If he did, Sean would go feral and the whole mess would start up again. Maybe that wasn't what Jonathan had meant; maybe he just wanted to say goodbye. Maybe he just wanted his little Skal for comfort. Either way, he _had_ to deal with Sean.

“I'll take care of him.” Geoffrey promised, resting his hand on Reid's cheek again, “I promise.”  
  
McCullum leaned in and closed his eyes. Even killing a leech for the last time, he didn't want to see it die. He knew he'd feel it well enough.

It would only need the barest fraction of his inhuman strength to press down through the meat, between the ribs. Yet, it still wasn't easy. He hadn't been made for surrender, not by God, not by Carl and not by Reid. He was meant to go out fighting. It was hard to let go.

“I went too far, beast.” McCullum hissed, needing to explain it if only to himself. “I can't take it back. The best I can do is this.”

Seeking to comfort him, completely without comprehension, Reid's cold hands pulled his head down to press bloodied lips to his. The scent caught him; hooked him under the jaw and drove him into that kiss. Tasting the stale, opium-laced blood on his Maker's lips, he felt the blessed high soothe the pain a little.

“I'm sorry.” He murmured into the haze, letting himself rest for a moment as time drifted. He sagged onto Reid's shoulder, nestling under the blood-scented warmth of his beard. “It killed me already. I'm just cleaning up now. Not your fault.”  
  
A moment of peace. No telling how long it lasted. Geoffrey lifted his head again as the high faded back. It had been nice. It had been good. It had been long enough. Now, it was time.  
  
His shoulders tensed.  
  
“Please,” Sean said softly, urgently. “Please, Geoffrey. Don't.”  
  
Lost in that high, McCullum hadn't heard him come in. How had he – No, The Saint would have found them the same way McCullum had found Reid.  
  
“I have to.” The Hunter answered, realising as he said it how good it felt to tell someone. A confession, perhaps... or a burden shared.

Sean approached slowly, speaking softly, as if he was talking someone back from a ledge.  
  
“Why do you think so?”

“Sean...” A bitter, resigned little laugh escaped with the words. “Look around you.”  
  
Sean didn't brush it off. For a silent moment, he did just that, then stepped forward again. “That is done, Mr McCullum. I.. I do not condone it, but more death will not undo it.” The Saint came closer, “He is calm now.”  
  
“No, Sean.” McCullum corrected bitterly. “He's high now.”  
  
“Yes.” Sean agreed without resentment. “He is no longer a danger.”

“As long as he's alive...” McCullum sighed. “He will be again.”  
  
“Please, my friend.” Another catlike step. “He would have known you would come. He came here for a reason.”  
  
“He's in pain.”

“I know that.” The little Skal said soothingly, almost close enough now to touch him. He didn't. “We both know that pain. He is still infected.” The little Saint reached him and crouched down beside him. “He saved us.”  
  
“What do you mean?” His voice was flat, even in his own ears.

“Please.” Sean voice cracked this time. Now, McCullum could see the tears as they rolled down the Saint's cheeks. Carefully, he reached towards the stake. “Please take this away, and I will tell you all I can.”  
  
It was heartbreaking to hear. Despite everything, the Sad Saint still thought he could save the monsters. Maybe it was only because McCullum wanted a reason not to so badly, but he was willing to give him the chance.  
  
As Geoffrey turned the stake over to him, the Skal took it in both hands like a gun and laid it down on the floor. “Thank you, _mo chara_.”  
  
“Don't thank me.” McCullum hissed.

“Thank you.” Sean insisted, choked to a whisper as his voice broke utterly. McCullum wasn't ready for the sudden movement. He caught the Skal as he lunged towards him... only realising afterwards that it hadn't been an attack.  
  
“Sorry.” McCullum mumbled, letting him go, letting Sean wrap his arms around him, under his coat. McCullum couldn't... he couldn't understand how Sean could come anywhere near him after all he'd done. It felt deeply wrong; an exploitation of the unnatural charm a vampire held over a Skal. It wasn't fair but – God forgive _him,_ for a change – he was bloody grateful for the comfort.

As Sean wept and told him everything, he began to understand. The Saint's voice was rough and breathless as he explained about his disease, about the Red Queen's relation to the anger, about what Jonathan had said when he'd visited him during the day, about exactly what had been in that needle.  
  
God, it hurt worse, knowing that Reid had played some part in calming him down. With what McCullum had done in turn, it would have been so much easier if Reid had just left him to it.

After that, Sean trailed off into silence. Geoffrey realised he'd let himself sit down on the filthy floor, wrapping both arms around the Skal as he shook and spoke. It occurred to him that he could take this moment to end it for Sean. The little Skal would never even know. Just a quick, clean snap, then peace. If heaven was waiting for anyone, it would be waiting for him.

When McCullum opened his eyes again, he realised that Reid was staring softly at them both. Sean, in turn, was looking up with soft and compassionate eyes at a beast with blood around his mouth.

 _He blames himself._ McCullum realised, feeling a little anger coil under his grief. _He always blames himself._

“Dr Reid?” Sean said softly, tugging free of the embrace to take the vampire's limp hand. When he still didn't respond, he stroked the long fingers and tried, “Jonathan...It worked. Geoffrey is better now.”

A tiny frown creased the skin between Reid's eyebrows, as if he'd caught a single word of meaning amid an alien language. Then his eyes shifted to look at Geoffrey. They were still glazed, still stoned, but they oscillated minutely as they tried to focus.  
  
Sean gave a little gasp and pulled away entirely, clutching at Jonathan's hand with both of his. “Yes, he's here. He is much better now.”  
  
Reid nodded vacantly and pulled his hand back, peering over the arm of the chair for where Geoffrey had put the addict aside. When he reached for the man, Sean stood, caught his hand again and held it. “How do I help you, doctor?”  
  
Reid answered by muzzily shaking his hand away, and reaching out once more. To Geoffrey's horror, Sean nodded and helped him, lifting the man's arm so that Reid could lap once, twice at the cut. When Reid drew back, the Skal eased his victim back down onto the cushions.

“I understand you.” Sean said, sniffing.

“Sean,” McCullum said heavily, reluctantly. “I have to kill him.”  
  
Sean whipped around. Geoffrey's hand dropped to his hip but he caught himself before he drew anything. This wasn't just some rabid beast protecting its Master. This was _Sean_ , with his hands low and eyes wide.  
  
Thank God Reid seemed too stoned again to register the sudden, violent movement.

“Why?” Sean demanded.  
  
McCullum didn't know how to answer. He could only gesture around him, at the still bodies. “I staked him out for sunrise, Sean. It... It's not something they come back from.”  
  
The little Skal rose, fists bunching at his sides. With an anger he'd only suspected existed in the man, Sean snapped, “Have you given anyone the chance before, my friend?”

That blow landed, as it had every right to. McCullum turned his face away.

“And...” Sean seemed to regret the outburst. “I believe he has endured worse... That he _is_ enduring worse.” Sean's voice broke as he added, pleading in earnest. “Please, Geoffrey. He saved us both.”

“Is there more of the cure?” McCullum asked, “For him?”  
  
When Sean didn't reply, he figured that was his answer.  
  
“Then,” Geoffrey said at last, rising painfully to his feet. “You see why it doesn't matter.”  
  
“There will be another way.”  
  
“Anything substantial behind that?” McCullum sighed, “Or just faith?”

“Faith **is** substantial, Mr McCullum. After the events of last night, I would have hoped you might realise that.” 

“Faith won't be enough,” McCullum let his bitterness show, finding focus in the anger he didn't want to feel. “If the only only one of us with any chance is out of his damn mind. I'm not a blood doctor. Neither are you. Even Swansea's just firing in the dark compared to Reid. What the hell are **we** going to do?”  
  
Sean was full of quiet certainty as he said. “Whatever we can, Mr McCullum.”  
  
McCullum sighed again, felt heavy _again_. “That's what I'm trying to do. I have to end this. It's what I'm for.”  
  
“You are not just a killer, Geoffrey, whatever you have been in the past.”  
  
“That past is pretty God damned recent. You don't know what you're excusing.” Geoffrey snapped back, before remembering that Sean very much did know... he had been there for … for too much of it.

In the silence, behind Sean, Reid picked up the addict again and rested him across his lap, re-opening the cut with his fangs. Sean twisted, glancing back at him.  
  
“Geoffrey, please. Look at him.” Sean insisted, his eyes full of pain as he took a step closer to the Hunter. “Wasn't this all you wanted when you sought me out? Weren't you afraid that he wouldn't fight? That he would become a creature who took from the world and gave nothing back. Please, look at him. He has so much more cause to give over, and he is fighting. He was all but lost and yet he thought **to save you**.”  
  
Something was coiling, primal and violent in Geoffrey's chest. He tried to deny it, tried to keep it out, but it was already in too deep. His eyes locked with the little Skal's and Sean wavered.  
  
The Skal turned his face away, suddenly trembling. He swallowed thickly and spoke softly. “I did not mean to challenge you, my friend.”  
  
_Fuck._

Geoffrey wrenched his eyes away. Something very much like the Hunger was crawling up his spine, driving a growl into is throat. It was too close to the rage to be welcome.  
  
“Please,” Sean spoke more gently. “These men did not die because Dr Reid lacks compassion, Geoffrey. They died because he is at war, and she overwhelmed him for a time. Even now, even this, is to fight her. He is no better than he was last night, but he has rendered himself unable to act upon it.”

Sean fell quiet. He kept his face turned away and his fingers brushed against the empty space on his shirt where the cross should have hung. “I do not presume to know the Lords will, but if I were seeking a reason for our existence, I think I would find one here. No others of sane mind could understand what is at play here.”  
  
“How can you let go of what he's done,” Geoffrey growled low, finding himself angered at the prospect of forgiveness. “How can you let go what I did?”

“Not again, I beg of you. You were sick.”  
  
“Saint -”  
  
“No. Please, for all the love in my heart, please...stop.” Sean shivered from head-to-toe under the vampire's gaze. Even so, the little Skal turned to face him again. Under the Cloth, that man was still made of steel.  
  
Sean stepped forward. McCullum wasn't sure what he expected, but the little Skal took his hand in his own. “I know what it is to discover evil lurking in the heart of one I trust. This is not the same. You were sick. You bade me not even to apologise to you and the Lord knows I do not blame you. The blame rightfully lies with the source.”

“It's not your fault either, Sean.” McCullum snarled, “God-damned doctor should have known better.”  
  
And then, holiest of holies, Sean stepped in again and rested his hand on his chest.  
  
Offering something like forgiveness. Offering something like redemption.

“I don't mean me, Mr McCullum. I mean her.” As if imparting a great secret, Sean added. “I hear his thoughts, sometimes. I do not know why, but I do.”  
  
That took McCullum off-balance. The rising beast was knocked aside and he came lurching back to humanity again. “You hear him too?”  
  
“Yes.” Sean blinked. “Do you?”  
  
Against all expectation, McCullum felt his gloom break a little. A chuckle even tried to rise in his dry throat. “It's a progeny thing, Sean. It's because he's old blood.”  
  
“Oh.” Sean actually _blushed._ It wasn't a trick of the light. At a time like this, in a place like this, after everything that had happened, he was blushing. “I did not realise. Well, you have heard as well as I then. He knows what it is that afflicts him. He turns all his rage upon her, when he can. Can we do any less?”  
  
For the first time, McCullum regretted the amulet. Touching his fingers to it, he explained, “I can't hear him while I wear this, Sean. And I can't take it off. He can control me as easily as you without it and I'm too damn dangerous.”  
  
God bless him, but Sean looked heartsick. “Forgive me, I did not know. I did not mean to cause you pain.”  
  
“It's alright, Saint. Truth be told, I'm surprised I never asked.” He laughed softly, bitterly. “Some Hunter I am.”

Very quietly, very softly, without taking his hand away, Sean said. “There is a demon in our midsts, Mr McCullum. For the first time in my life, it is tangible. It is not the darkness in men's hearts. It is not weakness. It is evil and it can be defeated. For the first time, I have the power to help the men who can defeat it. Please, let me try.”  
  
“You really think we have a hope in hell?”  
  
“Perhaps not in hell, Geoffrey.” Sean smiled, weakly, “But here on earth, worse and less tangible demons are defeated every day. Worse sins are committed by those with every power to prevent themselves. For the first time, the enemy is before me. For the first time, I feel... God forgive me, I feel free, though I never knew that I was in chains.”

God, but right then McCullum didn't know if Sean was the best kind of preacher, or the worst kind of fanatic. He made you want to believe.  
  
McCullum had believed once too. It hadn't been so bad. Maybe, just maybe, he could believe again. If not forever, then for long enough.

“Alright. Let's say I'm willing to be persuaded. How do we do this?” 

“I think,” Sean said, lifting McCullum's arm to move beneath it and stand by his side. “That first, we must be willing to forgive.” 

Geoffrey was lost for a moment. Not only by the obscure phrase, but by the realisation that Sean truly did not blame him for last night. Not only a Skal who couldn't be angry, but also a man who wanted to forgive. His warm little body was close and comforting and utterly unafraid. Geoffrey knew he did not deserve his forgiveness, but he was glad for it.  
  
Then, he suspected he understood Sean's meaning.  
  
“I'm not sure I can.” McCullum confided. “But I'll give it a try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I promise, the smut returns soon ;) )


	5. A brother for adversity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcome fraternity. Comfort. Penance.
> 
> A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. ~ Proverbs 17
> 
> The unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit is of great worth in God’s sight ~ Peter 3

_I see you,_ she hissed.

Jonathan did not care. He was too far away from the pain, from the memories, from consequence at all. She ought to know that, silly girl.

Distantly, Jonathan became aware of a point of pain. He glanced down. It was a small pain, but conspicuous... strangely familiar.

As he peered at it, the various shapes swam into focus. A needle. Hands. His arm.

 _Ah_ , he thought, comfortably. _I am taking a blood sample._

Something was off about it, though. There seemed to be too many hands involved. There was his left arm, right there. There was the needle, held in his hand. There was another hand, holding his arm.  
  
That seemed odd.  
  
Jonathan watched, trying to puzzle out what seemed wrong about this.

Dimly, he became aware that there were more hands on the other side. He turned his head. There were two more holding his right hand. They were bandaged and rough. They were good hands, those ones. He liked them.

The needle was removed from his arm. Again, that seemed odd. He turned back it.

“McCullum?” A voice said. It sounded nervous.

“Keep going, doc.” Another voice answered.

There were even _more_ hands, he realised. Jonathan tried to count them as another needle pressed into his skin. Two there. Two on the needle. Two on the ends of his arms.

That was a _lot_ of hands, Jonathan decided. Too many, probably. They were all his hands, though. Every single one of them.

“You understand I can not be certain of the dosage?” A querulous part of him said.

“What's it going to do?” Another part of him said, scoffing. “Stop his heart?”

Something was _very_ wrong, Jonathan realised. He didn't like this.

“It's alright.” A third part said, stroking his face. “You are safe, Jonathan.”

Jonathan swung back and followed those hands back to the eyes. The eyes were bright and mostly white. Kind eyes. Good eyes. He made a noise that would tell them so.

“I am here.” Sean said, “It's alright.”

That was his Skal. Still, there were too many hands. He didn't like that at all.

“Geoffrey,” Sean said, softly, like a warning.  
  
“I know.” Said the hands that appeared around his shoulders. “Hurry up, doc.”

There were still too many hands. He didn't like them.

“I am going as fast as I can.” The other part of him said. “This is a little more delicate than hacking and slashing.”

Two more hands on his arm. Another needle.

He did _not_ like those hands. He followed them back to their eyes. Pale grey. Dark hair. Glasses. He let the voice in his chest speak his rage.

 _Swansea_.

“Please, Jonathan, there's no need for that.” The wide eyes gave a frightened little laugh. “We always make the worst patients, you know.”

A plunger going down.

Bliss.  
  
***  
  
Jonathan looked peaceful now. The hum beneath Sean's hands came in soft and deep, all its jagged edges smoothed out by the medicine. Two nights ago, even this much had seemed like a fragile hope. Drawing up a blanket, not minding its wretched condition, Sean curled up to lie against Jonathan's side. They were a step closer now. He would enjoy this moment of peace.

“And here I thought you were one of the few clever buggers who didn't take me for an idiot.” Geoffrey barked, thrusting his open hand towards Swansea. “The other one, doctor. Now.”  
  
Sean tried to let his mind rest. The other two vampires had begun arguing the moment their Maker had slipped into obliviousness. In all likelihood, there was nothing Sean could do. This was more than an old feud. This was two vampires, bound in fraternity, facing one another without their Maker to dictate their relationship. If the vampires could not see that, Sean could.  
  
It was best he let the argument resolve, that they might be done with it.

“Be reasonable, McCullum.” Dr Swansea fumed, brandishing his own empty hand like an accusation. “There is no equipment here, no facility whatsoever to make even the most basic investigation. If we have any hope of progression, I must begin my own investigations.”  
  
The subject of their argument had already ranged indiscriminately. Now, it seemed it had returned to the starting line; Swansea wished to take some of Jonathan's blood with him, McCullum would not allow it. At least the doctor had furnished them with a store of opium-laced blood they would need to keep Jonathan sleeping, while they worked out their next step.

“We need you.” McCullum growled. “But that doesn't mean I trust you. You started all this and I'll be damned if I let you start it again.”  
  
“You would be amazed how little your good opinion means to me.” Dr Swansea snapped back. “But believe it or not, I am trying to help. I certainly have few enough chances to repair the harm I have caused. I wish to put this right. This is _my_ disease.”  
  
“Sounding a bit maternal there, doc.”

“You of all people” Swansea hissed, “Know why I have come to terms with my complicity.”  
  
Sean rested his head against Jonathan's arm, waiting and watching. Surely, they could not argue forever.  
  
“Don't mistake pity for empathy.” McCullum growled, squaring his shoulders. “I had you pegged from day one and you haven't changed all that much, doctor.”  
  
“ _T_ _imor mortis conturbat me._ ” Swansea protested. A disturbing smile flickered at the corners of the doctor's pale lips. For a moment, the man looked unhinged. “I was mortal.”  
  
“Aye and you still managed to be a monster.”

“And. I. am. _**Paying**_ for that,” The doctor spat, “Unlike others who might be considered equally culpable for the bloodshed.”

“Sins aren't relative.” McCullum crossed his arms. “Besides, a shine on a turd is still a pile of shit.”  
  
“You are still a paranoid, arrogant butcher.”  
  
“And you're still a spineless, manipulative worm.”  
  
“Have you lost what little mind you had?” The doctor threw up his hands. “I have no need to deceive you! None at all! Need I remind you, ” Swansea hissed and Sean was startled to see the edge of fangs beneath his grimace. “Just how much I would benefit from stepping back and leaving you both to **rot**? Once you put him down -”  
  
That was going too far. Tangled in the blanket, Sean was slow to stand up. McCullum was not so restrained.  
  
Shadows crisped and faded in the air. The sound of impact reached Sean's ears a moment after the image resolved. McCullum pressed Swansea into the filthy wall. The Hunter was driving his thigh hard in between the weaker vampire's legs, pressing his arm across his neck, twisting his fist in the lapels of his coat.

“Don't push your luck, doctor.” McCullum growled; a vampire in full throat, fangs bared. “You're not our only option."  
  
For a moment, Dr Swansea grimaced and rallied to retort. Then, his jaw slackened and his vitriol vanished. Self-preservation stole his voice. Though Sean could not see it, he knew then that the veil had gone down between them. Now, it might turn to bloodshed.  
  
“Geoffrey?” Sean called.  
  
It sliced through the wave of coming violence, but both vampires turned to stare at him. He felt his knees weaken, as his legs strove to buckle and throw him down below their notice.  
  
\- _Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul -_

He remained standing.

“Geoffrey,” Sean said again, looking down at Jonathan's sleeping form. He chose the truth as his shield. “I fear we ought not agitate Jonathan.”  
  
Geoffrey glanced down at their Maker, then askance to Swansea. He stepped back, releasing the doctor after a perfunctory straightening of his coat. Sean let his legs buckle at last; sinking back to the ground beside his Maker.  
  
“He's got a point.” McCullum conceded. “Get out of here. We've got enough for a few nights. We'll pick this up when we've got him contained.”  
  
“Where – ” Swansea began, but Sean shook his head fervently and the doctor seemed to catch it. In sullen tones, he said instead. “Very well. When you have formulated your strategy, Warlord McCullum, do let me know where to deploy.”

“Don't push it.” McCullum growled, extending his open palm again, only standing aside once Swansea had relinquished their Maker's blood. Then he pushed his way out through the curtain Sean had hung to separate the living from the dead. Before the doctor left, Sean heard him pause at the door, entreating the proprietor to return with him to Pembroke.

Sean hoped that was truly what the doctor intended. Tonight, he had no power to prevent the alternative. He was needed here.  
  
“Geoffrey?” Sean said softly. As McCullum turned his head, Sean's guts turned to water. The man had not moved his shoulders; only his head and neck, like an owl; predatory and focused.  
  
“My friend. You are forgetting to breathe.”  
  
Anger flashed in the blood red eyes. Then, the Hunter drew a breath and expelled it curtly with the air. “Sorry Saint. Smug bastard always gets right under my skin.”  
  
Satisfied that Jonathan was deeply asleep, Sean went to the other man's side. “I fear that is not all that is bothering you. Are you well?”

The Hunter dismissed it. “I'll be fine.”

“You are hungry, my friend. I can stay with him, if you must go and return before we can attempt to move him.”

“I don't need to, Sean.” McCullum shook his head violently, spitting out the words in disgust with himself. “It's just a craving. I just want a damn fix.”

“When we are dishonest with ourselves, we are dishonest with God.” Sean pushed, laying his fingers upon the vampire's arm. “There is no shame in recognising a truth, my friend.”  
  
“It's not that simple, Sean.” McCullum met his eyes again with the soft veil of humanity returned. “There's more at work here. I feel... I feel like the damn hunger's alive, like it wants to steer me still like a puppet, and I'm not having that. Not again. Not as long as I fucking live.”  
  
Sean nodded. As he came to understand himself better as a Skal, he was beginning to understand the vampires better too. The magnetism that drew him to them did not care whether he was hungry or not. His craving did not care whether he _needed_ their blood or not.  
  
Even after that, the thirst was only the most obvious of their needs. It was only the most visible of their instincts.  
  
Softly, he asked. “Do you need me, my friend?”  
  
McCullum looked at him strangely for a moment. Then pulled back, brushing his hand away, “No, Sean. I've taken too much from you already.”  
  
“I did not mean -”  
  
“I know you what you damn well meant.” Geoffrey snapped, turning away and striding towards Jonathan's prone form. “Come on, let's get him tucked away before the sun catches us.”

There was good sense in that. Sean helped, as much as he could.  
  
***

Thank Christ, the Saint had offered the room beneath his Shelter before McCullum had to ask.

There would be no hiding the extent of the vampires' attack from Priwen. Even if Geoffrey had been a little smarter about it, Reid would have followed the standard radial pattern from his daytime haven. The Guard would be at their doorstep in a matter of days. The Manor's general neighbourhood and even Pembroke were as likely to be watched. The Asylum was the only place with enough of a tidy facade to hide a helpless vampire.

McCullum had prepared something trite about having been drunk and being tremendously sorry. When dark-eyed Lottie Paxton opened the door though, she had shot him a sharp glance that had stifled the words. He'd recognised that look. He'd never sent out a patrol that didn't have it.

Luckily for both of them, Sean had been prepared. He was speaking with her now, while McCullum attended to the familiar business of tying up a sleeping vampire.  
  
It was bloody hard. He felt Reid's absence more acutely than ever. Whatever twists and turns their relationship had taken, the beast had always been with him. Since the second Reid had forced his mouth open and the first drops of sweet corruption hit his throat, Reid had been an anchor; a foil; an opponent; a boundary to push against with all his might.

Now, with fountains of blood and the nights of slaughter inside him, he was off the leash entirely. More powerful than ever with less reason to hold back. He might be sane now, but that was all relative. He was still a mad dog: ready to bite.  
  
All the reasons for restraint felt distant; academic. Like bible verses; flimsy guidelines that mattered only so long as he wanted them to. If he broke them, there was no invisible hammer, no hand to shake him by the collar, no Carl and no Maker, no God and no Devil, no one who could stop him. The Guard would not catch him.  
  
Accountable only to himself.

The thought made his head spin.

“Would you mind,” He implored Reid after a while, “Not looking so damn helpless?”  
  
Daft though it was, it took a weight off to say it aloud.  
  
“It's not like this is fucking easy.” He growled, as he prepared the harness. “But I know what you meant now, about 'listening'. It's bloody deafening: Sean's mine, you're beaten, I'm top leech.” He spat. “It's bloody stupid.”  
  
No anger on the doctor's dark brow; no snarl around his lips. Reid was beyond caring.  
  
“I don't even feel a little bit human any more. So I could really do with you being a bit less passive and putting me in my place.”  
  
Maybe Reid heard, maybe he didn't, but the words helped keep back the silence. His voice grew hoarse as he hauled Reid up to cinch the knot at the back of his neck.

“I killed too many people, Reid. It's changed me. Sean might not see it, but I'm damn sure you'd know what I mean. Feels like I broke myself in, like a pair of boots.”  
  
Reid's eyes fluttered open and for a moment, McCullum thought...but no, there was nothing behind them. McCullum was careful to make sure he wasn't too generous with the slack. These ropes wouldn't hold up in the long-term, but they had to rob Reid of leverage long enough to dose him at the beginning of the night. That might end up being Sean's job, so they needed to hold.  
  
“God, Reid, it feels like Turning all over again. Like I've been dragged through some damn door only to find it feels like home.”

Checking for slack between the rope and the skin, McCullum let his hand linger alongside the beast's neck. Reid looked more at peace than he'd ever seen him. That realisation _hurt_ ; the realisation that he had never known Reid without that predatory tension. He'd never had the chance. He should have... would have, if God's sense of humour wasn't what it was.

Telling himself it was daft, knowing Reid wouldn't care, he pressed a kiss to the cold lips. “Is this how you felt, beast? If it was, how the fuck did you ever rein yourself in for my fucking sensibilities?” McCullum shook his head, allowing himself a bitter little laugh at the stupidity of it all. “And how the hell am I going to claw my way back, when you're off with the fairies?”

His Maker had no answer. McCullum finished off and propped him up against the wall in good time. The cabinet at the top of the stairs groaned.  
  
As Sean padded downstairs, McCullum lowered his voice to a whisper. “You're not going to be happy when you wake up. But... just, do me one small favour? Be really fucking pissed with me in particular.” He dropped a kiss on the beast's forehead. “That'll help.”  
  
When he turned, Sean was waiting patiently a few feet away. The moment his eyes fell upon the little Skal, a fire stirred. Blood pooled where it had no right to, lighting up nerve endings at the first blush of pressure.  
  
 _No._ He thought. _None of that._  
  
Whatever his blood might be telling him, Sean wasn't just a prize or a plaything. He was man; real and better than he was by far. McCullum walked deliberately past him to tidy up the unused lengths of rope.  
  
“Lottie Paxton.” McCullum said instead. “How much does she know?”  
  
“Not much but... enough.” Sean admitted. “She held her own suspicions discreetly but I … confirmed them the night I left. She knows that you are vampires.” Sean worried his lip between his teeth. “But you can trust in her discretion. She will help us if she can.”  
  
“Is she a good liar?” The thought made him uneasy. Mortal thralls were something Priwen kept an eye out for. “It might be better if I try and change her mind.”

 _Or remove the liability_. A darker part of him thought.  
  
“There is no need.” Sean stood tall for a moment, then the tension broke into a little self-effacing smile. “I explained about the sickness. Recall your scripture. It has much to say about caring for the sick and showing compassion for the outcast, the leper and the sinner seeking salvation. She will keep our secret however she must. Trust me, my friend, and rest easy.”  
  
“Alright, Saint.” Resigned to trusting a man who had bloody well earned it, McCullum gave in. “Speaking of rest, I don't have a watch. How long do we have?”  
  
Sean worried his lip again, “An hour, perhaps less if the sky is clear?”

“Not long enough.” McCullum sighed. “Best not to risk leaving you on your own with him if I get caught out. I'll go tomorrow.”  
  
After a moment's hesitation, Sean said, “Your concern...” The light voice broke, but he kept on. “Thank you, my friend. I am... glad you have returned.”  
  
“Sean.” McCullum chided, gently, seeing the tears finally breach whatever fortress had held them back until now. “Oh, come here _mo chara_.”  
  
Sean stepped into his arms so easily that McCullum had to kick himself. He needed to be more careful with commands.

“Sorry about that.” He mumbled. “I didn't think.”  
  
Sean shook his head, speaking into his chest. “It is alright.”  
  
The little Skal wept silently. Only his shuddering breath and the growing damp on McCullum's shirt gave him away. They were the kind of tears a man might weep if it had been important, too many times, that no one knew about them.

That realisation stoked an old rage. More importantly, it seized the loose edges of McCullum's conviction and lashed them down. No matter what happened now, he would do all he could to make it out the other side. Not for himself, of course; the world might be better of without him these days. But for a man the world did not deserve, whose forgiveness he did not deserve, but which they had anyway.  
  
He might not have a wall to push against any more, but he had good reason to look away from the abyss.

As the Saint clung to him like a rock in a storm, McCullum held onto him like an anchor. Later, when McCullum closed his eyes for sunrise, he tried to hold onto the thought that it was not Reid in the sparse, elderly bed with him. When he awoke, he would need to remember that.  
  
For now, McCullum looked forward to a day without dreams.  
  



	6. Thy ahavah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain and sanctuary. A contest concluded by unexpected means.
> 
> "My brother, thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women." ~ Samuel, 1:26
> 
> (Go on, have some smut)

Sunset.  
  
The pain started the moment he opened his eyes.  
  
McCullum sat up. There was an ache behind his eyeballs like a hangover and cotton wool inside his head. His joints burned. Every muscle in his body felt as tense as violin strings. With a grunt, he swung his legs off the bed.  
  
“Good evening, Geoffrey.” The Saint's soft brogue broke his momentum, jarring him back to where he was and why. He came crashing back into himself, sat at the edge of the wire frame and its squashed, elderly mattress.  
  
McCullum ran his fingers over his temples. His pulse was drumming in his ears, throbbing so much that it sounded like many pulses; rhythms intertwining and overlaid on each other.  
  
“Evening Saint.” God, even talking was agony. His throat and jaw ached like he'd taken a punch. He tried to focus. “How's he faring tonight?”

“He's well, I think.” In the aching fog between McCullum's ears, the sound of an empty vial being placed on the table was unbearably loud. “I felt him stir just a few moments ago. He is sedated.”  
  
“That's good.” McCullum said, trying to get his head straight. It looked like the ropes had held. The beast was slouched against the wall with his head tilted back, eyes wide, mouth slack as if in exasperation. McCullum squinted at him. It was an odd posture.  
  
Without thinking, he turned his head to follow that glassy-eyed gaze.

 _Shit._  
  
The ache exploded in spattering of points of pain along McCullum's skin like peppershot. Reid wasn't looking at the ceiling, he was sensing past it, dreaming of the thumping hearts of the Saint's flock and their blood like liquid rubies. It was the same drumbeat chorus pounding in McCullum's ears.  
  
Off the back of that, the penny dropped. He was in fucking withdrawal. God, it was so much worse than he'd expected.  
  
“How are you tonight?” Sean asked, softly, coming to sit beside him.

“It's bad.” McCullum admitted, though the voice did not sound quite like his own. “Really fucking bad.”

Sean paused, then rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Would you pray with me, Geoffrey?”  
  
McCullum jerked his head up, meaning to laugh but regretting it as pain branched through his skull. Wincing, he managed to say, “No, Saint. I... I don't think I can.”  
  
“Then...” Sean began to unbutton his cuff. Before he could make the offer, Geoffrey jerked away from him, launching up to his feet, snarling.  
  
“Fuck's sake. Just fucking stop.”

The movement had been a mistake. No pain, this time but... The stairs lay ahead of him now and beyond the cabinet, crimson stars were pulsing. It was early in the night. Sean's flock was gathering for dinner.  
  
His throat tightened, roughening his words to a growl as he added. “You don't want me thinking of you like that.”  
  
He couldn't move. He felt mesmerised. The drums were pounding inside his head like the thunder of cavalry charge, valves whistling as blood squeezed through ripe and supple arteries. He would need to get a hold of himself and turn away. There was another way out through the sewers. He would only look for a moment longer, then he would turn away. Only a moment.  
  
Lengthening fangs pricked his lips.

Behind him, Sean was speaking softly. “You are hungry, my friend. If it is only a craving, then you do not need to kill. Let me help you, please.” He laughed gently, “I am not made of glass.”  
  
 _No,_ McCullum thought grimly, _You're made of blood and bone and other things that break just as easily. You think I'm civilised, like him. I'm bloody not._

Instead, he held his tongue. His mouth felt so unbearably dry. The scent of them had him hooked under the jaw but... but he could still turn away. He just didn't want to yet. The song was so seductive. It was a pleasure just to listen, that was all.  
  
He realised he'd taken a step forward.  
  
“Geoffrey.” Sean cautioned in reasonable tones. “Do not harm my flock.”  
  
“I won't.” McCullum growled, briefly resentful that the Saint would think so little of his self-control. He wasn't going to hurt them, though the thirst was beginning to sing in his ears; drowning out every sound except the sweetest ones.

“Please, _mo chara._ I will not let them come to harm.” Sean said gently, rising to his feet. “I do not... I would not ever want to turn you away, but I serve the Lord first. I serve you only after.”  
  
The words hit deep; deeper than bone, into the blood.

Geoffrey whirled around, snarling. “You're not mine, Sean. Don't fucking think like that. Not even for a second.”  
  
“But...” Sean flinched from the fire in Geoffrey's eyes, his own wide and white with fear. Then his eyes softened with the pain of understanding. “But... I am, if you want me, _a gra_.”  
  
“Don't.” Geoffrey warned, low. Upstairs, a burst of laughter began to drag his attention back.

“Please.” Sean stepped forward, reaching out with gnarled fingers to touch his arm. “Let me serve you.”  
  
Geoffrey seized him by the shoulder. Sean gasped in pain, then froze in fear as Geoffrey snarled into his face.

“DON'T try to fucking play me.” Thunder pounded against his temples. “I'm not a fucking animal you can steer with the right words.”  
  
“I'm sorry.” Sean protested, “I only thought - ”  
  
“You thought wrong.” McCullum snapped, shouting over the sound of the thirst. Sean flinched again as his grip tightened. “I'm not like him, Sean.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
Distantly, Geoffrey realised he was hurting the man with his hand clenched so tight around his skinny arm. Sweat sprang out over Sean's skin; a startling bouquet drenched in adrenaline.  
  
He let him go. Then, without thinking, McCullum twisted the Skal around, turning him to face the bed. The thunder died down to a single, pounding pulse as every hair on Sean's neck stood up; his skin breaking out in goosebumps. When McCullum's hand closed on his jaw, the Skal did not resist. He only sipped air and yielded to the crushing grip, trying to relax.

A lively little pulse danced under his tongue, as fangs throbbed down to pierce the skin.  
  
***

_...What you do for the least of my brothers, you do also for me..._

Sean stifled a moan at the breaching pleasure-pain of the bite. Geoffrey cleaved to him like a rock in a storm. Their bodies pressed hard together, turning his thoughts to sin.

... _For love covers over a multitude of sins..._

He had been so afraid for his flock. Yet, although that was the worthy reason, it was not the only one.

Under that penetrating kiss, Sean felt himself slide. Not backwards, not away, but more like...sideways, sliding into that place in his head where he could be what he was.

He was a Skal. Now, more than ever, he understood what that meant. It was not for him to know what the Lord had intended by it. He was as God had made him, subsumed by the pleasure of service as he gave his warmth to his Master.

He felt his fingertips grow cold.  
  
“Please,” He whispered. “Please stop.”  
  
The draw eased. For a moment, he hung as if over a precipice.  
  
As his thinned blood tumbled back into its natural courses, his heart skittered back into its chosen pace. Despite the unnatural coldness of his limbs, warmth fluttered in his veins.  
  
Geoffrey's fangs were still deep inside his flesh, so Sean remained carefully still. Geoffrey rested for a moment; his lips still against the skin, breathing softly through his nose. When a stray rivulet leaked over at last, the fangs withdrew with a sharp final prick of pleasure and the liquid warmth of Geoffrey's tongue on his skin.

Still, Geoffrey breathed lightly as if drinking in his scent. Then the rough stubble drifted over his skin as he brought his lips to Sean's ear.  
  
Like an accusation, the vampire hissed. “You _want.”_  
  
Sean stiffened, stumbling back to himself under the judgement. By habit, he began to deny it, tried to turn it out, but Geoffrey gave him no chance. The vampire took a firmer hold on his chin, shaking him slightly.  
  
As if incredulous, Geoffrey said it again. “You _want_ .”  
  
Sean heard Geoffrey's tongue flick out to clear the red stain from his lips and knew his blood had betrayed him.  
  
“Yes.” He confessed. “Forgive me.”

Though he had acted to protect his flock, Sean would not pretend that he took no pleasure in it. He would only hope that his offer would not be tainted thereby, that Geoffrey would accept his help again if needed.  
  
Geoffrey's breath was warm on his ear as he growled, “No, _mo chara_ . I don't forgive so easily.”  
  
Startled, Sean froze as Geoffrey brought his arm around in front of him, cutting off his air with the pressure against his windpipe. The wet sound of fangs on flesh, close to his ear, sent his throat into spasms.  
  
The vampire's wrist dripped. The scent swarmed over his senses, speaking of sin.  
  
“Geoffrey.” Sean protested, “Jonathan.”  
  
McCullum stopped. A resentful growl resonated from the Hunter's chest, vibrating in his own. Behind him, Geoffrey's manhood rose like a bar, curving hard against the fabric between them. Yet his grip grew harder; colder.

“Is that,” The Hunter murmured, the words clipped though his voice was a rolling growl. His bloodied hand pressed around Sean's throat. “The only reason?”  
  
“I... I don't...” A shiver sparked at the nape Sean's his neck and tingled down his spine, igniting a warmth below. “I don't know.”

“Oh, you know.” McCullum growled softly. He could almost hear the humanity slipping from his voice, replaced by a sound that made Sean's body quiver. “But you know I'm not like him. I'll only ask once, _a_ _ghrá_ .” Rough lips pressed against the crook of Sean's neck. Hard fangs brushed past his ear. “Do you want this?”  
  
A jolt; like and yet unlike fear. He ought to say 'no'. He must repent for too much already. He ought remember his duty to his flock. He ought remember his duty to Jonathan. He ought not be here, in the dark, with the scent of sin upon his flesh and immorality within his heart.

Yet his voice betrayed the weakness in his soul, saying, “Yes.”

Whether he felt it as a man, or a Skal, he did not know. But it did not change the answer.

 _\- No temptation hath overtaken you that is not common to man -_  
  
“Good.”  
  
McCullum's bloody hand slid up along throat. Sean tilted up beneath it, whimpering until the fingers ran along his lip. Too much to bear. Sean drifted into himself once more and licked the dark droplets from it, lapping at it as his Master slid one digit into his mouth.

The rusty taste of power and virility swarmed over his tongue. His wounds prickled and closed. The pleasure of service sparked down his spine.

“Since the first time.” The vampire breathed raggedly into his ear. "Since the very first time you fed on me. And I thought you didn't know.”

Sean had not _known_ , then. But Geoffrey's finger traced the inside of his mouth, playing on his tongue, making it impossible to protest. Instead, he only uttered a choked, pleading sound and the vampire growled with pleasure.  
  
McCullum raised his chin. A moment later, Sean flinched as soft fabric encircled his neck. Instinctively, his hands shot up to feel Geoffrey's scarf, looped tight around his throat.

The vampire paused to draw him up into a kiss sweet with smoke and blood, then pressed him down.  
  
“Sit.” McCullum growled, reinforcing the command with pressure upon the soft collar.  
  
Dizzy with abnegation, Sean sat, eyes half-lidded as Geoffrey unfastened his own trousers. Smoothly, softly, the vampire laid his member alongside Sean mouth. It was a prodigious thing, dark at the tip and laced with deep blue veins along the length. Sean nuzzled at it. Then, uncertain of himself, closed his lips on the velvety tip.

McCullum growled again, breathy and hungry. Sean needed no other guide than that. Yet when he opened his mouth, McCullum pressed forwards. It was a shock, but one Sean found that he _liked._ He laid his lips close upon it as Geoffrey slid slowly back, then laid his tongue over his sharp teeth as Geoffrey thrust again, more gently. With the fingers of one hand looped against his collar, the vampire drew him back and forth, in time with the rocking of his hips.  
  
Sean was lost to it, to learning the complexity of Geoffrey's member, to running his tongue underneath and finding the sensitive places that made the Hunter growl. It was the deepest kind of kiss, dabbing sour salt upon his tongue and throat. McCullum grew larger in his mouth, swifter on his tongue, but then, unexpectedly, pulled back and away.  
  
Sean glanced up, mouth still open. His heart clenched with the fear that he had done wrong. And yet the sharp and predatory eyes told him otherwise.

A low growl. Hungry.

“I want to see you, Sean.”  
  
Undressing was not the terror it had been. The vampire commanded and he obeyed. His reward came with the rustle of fabric and a sharp tug upon the scarf which forced his gaze up to the great scarred length of the vampire's body above him. It was not at all like Jonathan's lean and perfect twist of alabaster muscle. This was a body made perfect by its imperfection; muscles bulging together beneath the ragged scars.

A gleam caught his eye, shining gold in the divot between his pectoral muscles. The amulet looked so delicate; far too delicate for the power it restrained. Shadows blurred as the vampire's hand shot up, seizing Sean roughly by the jaw, claw-tips pressing painfully into the broken skin of his cheeks.

“Don't touch it, _mo chara.”_ In his anger, Geoffrey's voice sounded as Jonathan often did. _“_ Trust me on that.”  
  
Sean looked straight into the eyes of the beast inside McCullum's skin. The vampire's power washed over him, twisting his belly with need. He surrendered, utterly, intoxicated, wanting, lost. Sean whimpered.  
  
“There you are.” The vampire growled in satisfaction, pausing to stroke Sean's hair. “There's the other half of you.”  
  
He barely thought at all as McCullum pressed him down upon the bed and covered him with his body. With unexpected intimacy, Geoffrey stretched him out, binding the other end of the scarf around the wire head of the bed. Cold lips and hard fangs pressed against his own, then McCullum slid down.

The warm tongue between his legs came as a shock. The twisting warmth played under his scrotum, probing into his anus. Sean gasped but the vampire pinned his legs up and neither stopped nor slowed, but began an overwhelming assault upon his senses. Sean might have moaned, or writhed; he did not know. All he could do was feel, and feel it at his Master's mercy.  
  
When it ended, Sean lay panting, broken, unable to understand how he had not unduly messed himself. Yet, with mindless and willing obedience, he watched McCullum unhook the scarf and let himself first be dragged up by his neck, then pushed roughly forwards onto his hands and knees.  
  
It was a need he knew, but dared not name. As McCullum mounted behind him like some great forest beast, Sean whimpered, pleading. The warm tip pressed against his opening, fingers stroking down his back that were at once tantalising and reassuring. He could only brace as his body pressed back, resisting for a moment, before it came to understand and welcomed his Master inside.  
  
Sean choked back a cry, lest it give them away. McCullum growled soft and long, drawing him back onto his length so far that Sean had to choke back the sound again.  
  
McCullum Covered him like a stallion Covers a mare. Sean's fingers curled in the thin blanket. His thoughts melted. An inhuman sound escaped his narrow chest. Sean need do nothing but feel and whimper, for the pleasure and for the pain and for all that he could feel filling his body.  
  
 _Oh, God in heaven._ Sean thought. He was not ashamed.

McCullum was deep within him and he was spiralling close to that edge; an ecstatic pressure that flashed white spots behind his eyes. In a last desperate burst of discretion, Sean dragged the blanket up and shoved it between his teeth.  
  
Release slammed into him like a wall. As he spilled himself, Sean's mind collapsed. His thoughts spiralled up and away, light as clouds. Blinded, shuddering, feeling the hot pulse of fluid erupting from his body, he whimpered to feel the deep growl of Geoffrey's approval vibrating in his body.

Warm and reeling, as the thrusts of Geoffrey's hard member continued to drive the air from his chest, Sean's eyes opened and met another's.

Red and black, like a dragon's.

Sean gasped. “Jonathan.”

  
***  
  
Geoffrey looked up.  
  
No thought.  
  
No rage.

Only a long, fang-filled smile, like a snarl. Sean whimpered again as McCullum thrust a little harder, pinning him by the hips.

Only the shuddering sense of taboo shattering; of indulging in something utterly forbidden. The adolescent thrill of daring; of being caught. The monstrous satisfaction of knowing that his defeated Maker could do nothing to intervene, as he fucked his Skal to utter completion.  
  
As he spiked up towards orgasm, shuddering, gritting his teeth against a low moan, he caught a twitch of movement. A tiny furrow troubled the beast's brow.  
  
Climax struck like a roll of thunder, lifting him up, smiting him down.  
  
***  
  
Guilt came, later. But that was later. For a while, for long enough, there was only a drowsy, perfect warmth and the soft purring of the little Skal as he came back up from the depths. Geoffrey hadn't realised that the little Skal could purr. He wondered if Sean knew that he did.  
  
Reid hadn't reacted any more than that little frown. Probably, Geoffrey supposed, it was only that his eyes had been drawn to the movement. Just like any other predator. _  
  
***  
  
_ As he came to realise that he lay in McCullum's arms, sticky and warm with all they had shared, Sean found his peace. He had offered his leash, willingly, and it had been accepted, not taken.  
  
When he raised his head to meet McCullum's eyes, there was a softness in them he had not seen before. Not even when they had been little more than acquaintances, rebuilding a roof.  
  
Now, when McCullum looked at him, there was no violence in his eyes; no covetous and predatory edge. The contest was over. They had both found acceptance.  
  
Although, in time, he chastised himself for the immoral thrill he had felt in submitting to McCullum before Jonathan, he was glad that it had been so. Even now, Jonathan's command still rang in his mind. He must save Geoffrey, however he could. He could not know if it was God's will, but he knew for certain that it was Jonathan's.


	7. Like the first morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan wakes. 
> 
> (Hey. Sorry it's been a while! Months actually... But *things* happened IRL that caused an utterly unintentional haitus and then, well, I *really* wanted to get this bit right. I hope I did <3 Thank you bearing with. I hope it feels worth the wait. More coming soon.)

A memory of thunder, drowning out another rhythm. A memory of a flood, driving oil from the water. As if the sun had set again, Jonathan awoke.

There was only darkness around him. Willing it to part, he closed his eyes, opened them once more but the darkness remained absolute. The first prickling of fear arrived at the base of his skull. Some half-remembered _thing_ throbbed at the edge of his vision. Some ghost of a voice was echoing in his skull.

The name rattled out, unbidden, his voice sanded down to a whisper by the roughness of his throat. He hadn't thought to cry out. He hadn't meant to.

“Geoffrey!”

An immediate answer, half-breath and disbelieving. “Jon?”  
  
Jonathan flinched, uncertain as to precisely why. The memory was fragmented, elusive. Footsteps, coming closer. The heavy scuff of the Hunter's boots.

“Geoffrey?” Jonathan tried to turn, but a ring of metal answered. Impatient, he tried to pull free, but felt only the unnerving sensation of _swinging_ slightly. “I can't... I can't see.”

“Easy now. You're hooded, that's all.” His voice sounded strangely choked, “How do you feel, beast?”

Jonathan could not _begin_ to answer that. So, he didn't. Instead, he summoned together his other senses and growled to the red fountain that was Geoffrey. “Take it off. I need to see.”

The Hunter hesitated a moment, before he said. “No, it stays on for now.”  
  
“Why?” A distant anger roiled, like a beast turning over in sleep. “Where are we?”

Geoffrey's voice hardened. “I can't tell you that, beast.”  
  
Jonathan twisted his face towards the Hunter. He could move that much, at least. “Why not?”

A long pause. In the unnerving silence, Jonathan picked up another sound, barely on the edge of hearing. Breathing. A single individual, panting lightly, sounding strained. Only when his head started to drift that way, McCullum spoke quickly, sharply, drawing his attention back.

“Reid. How much do you remember?”

Perplexed, Jonathan tried to recall. His mind felt disordered, stupefied. He recalled... a woman. Yes, a woman and - as though that one fragmented memory had been a doorway, the rest boiled across his senses.

_Endless shadows moving. Hands clutching at him; so many hands, staining his clothes, dragging him to his knees._

_'Drink, Eat, For this is my body.'_

_A voice echoing in foreign tongues. A hand on his throat, gliding to his chin. Fingertips on his lips, cupping his jaw. Pain. Searing pain. Such sweet agony._

_'So much guilt. So much innocence.'  
  
Yes. _

Appalled, Jonathan jerked back, gasping, heaving. He tried to steady himself, but found no purchase. Panic threatened.

“How long, Geoffrey?” His voice tore at his throat. “How long has it been?”

McCullum did not answer. In the blind darkness, Jonathan could not even tell if he were still there... if he had _ever_ been there. His sense of what was real was flimsy, at best. Lacking, at worst.

Fear leached the rage from his voice.

“Geoffrey?”

“I'm still here, Reid.” A heavy sigh. “It's been a while.”

“What... what happened?”  
  
He was beginning to stumble upon other memories. They were vivid in the way of past trauma; at times painfully detailed, at others blotted with omissions where the mind's eye could not turn. He recalled the shock of impact, the wrench of tearing flesh, a line of marching fire. The memories were visceral but deeply familiar, worn smooth with prior recollection.

He remembered enough to recognise the need for caution. Though his own rage and hunger felt oddly distant, he had no way to determine Geoffrey's condition. Yet, to judge by the voice alone, Geoffrey only sounded _tired._

“Please, Geoffrey.” He said, as softly as he could. “What happened?”

McCullum sighed. “How are you feeling, Reid?”

“You keep asking that.”

“And _you_ keep dodging the question, beast.” With what sounded like a grunt of pure exasperation, McCullum added. “A trade, then. You answer me, I answer you.”

Bewildered, feeling as though he was missing half of the conversation, Jonathan assented. “Alright.”

Another silence.

“You first, leech _.”_

Jonathan blinked. It had been a long time since Geoffrey had used _that_ word as anything but a playful insult. Even as he grappled with the hostility there, the _other_ form in the room began to step forward and he saw the Hunter jerk towards it with a hand outstretched. A clear signal to stay back.

 _Sean_.

With a sickening wrench, a new wave of memories burst into his skull. Skin under his teeth. Tearing, with no regard for life, only chasing the jugular as deep as he could go. Teeth meeting in the flesh. The glorious fountain of a severed artery striking the back of his throat. The deep, malicious pleasure of it overwhelmed him, lengthening his fangs with remembered ecstasy, singing in his jaw. A thunder. A whimper. A blow.  
  
Not a misstep. Not a loss of control. An attack, intentional and vicious.

“My God, Sean.” His voice came out thick and rough, syllables broadened around his teeth. “I... I'm sorry.”  
  
 _There_ lay the cause of Geoffrey's animosity. As if a thread had been cut, that hostility fell away from Geoffrey's frame. At last, Jonathan began to understand. There was no logical progression to the memories, no sense of the passage of time, but the memories _were_ there. Bloody moments, blind rage and hot fury, patient hunger and pathological hatred, the inhuman stillness of a monster biding its time to strike.

Sean, reading to him always, breaking up the silent and unbearable nights with soft words.

“How are you feeling, Reid?” Geoffrey said again, implacable.

“I'm... still hungry, but it's tolerable.” He said, trying to rationalise amid the rush. “I can think. I can think _clearly._ The anger is... it's distant, dissociated. Some impediment of memory recall but … but that may be for the best.”

A broken sound from Sean, like a sob. Geoffrey went to him. Jonathan tried to ignore it. He had _wanted_ them to preserve one another. He _must_ remember that.

“I remember... Chloral Hydrate. I suggested it but you...you couldn't make it work as a serum.” Jonathan said slowly, half-remembering, half-extrapolating. “So you gave it to him, in order to dose me.”

“That's right. You wouldn't drink it from the bottle.” Geoffrey growled. “You knew if you held out long enough, he'd volunteer, and you'd get the bite you've been howling about for weeks.”  
  
Rage came all too easily; a familiar friend that had only been waiting for the door to open. “You _let him -”_

“FUCK YOU.” Geoffrey roared back. “I didn't LET anything, beast. God knows, you've come close to killing him enough times. It was all I could do to make sure I was there when it happened.”

Jonathan's retort died on his tongue. At first, he couldn't believe it – but of course, he had. He remembered the malicious delight. True, the hunger had been maddening, but this act had been vested in something more primal. From the first, he had been willing to take Sean's life if no other throat was bared. Later, he had _wanted_ to kill him, if only to make Geoffrey careless with grief and guilt.

“I didn't know.” He said weakly. He longed to apologise, but what apology could be adequate.

The warranted recriminations did not come. He had expected Geoffrey to persist, to demand an account. The Hunter's silence told him too much. Geoffrey's temper would never burn out so easily, not unless it had been worn down over time.

“How long, Geoffrey?” He asked, desperate for something – anything – of substance to turn his thoughts to. “How long have I been here?”

“Six weeks, give or take a couple of days.”

“Six....Weeks.” Jonathan breathed. He did not... he could not remember it in any linear fashion. Only a collage of memories. “Have you been taking samples?”

“At first, sure. It got too dangerous, later on.” A derisive snort of laughter. “Anyway, you were pretty insistent that after four weeks, it was pointless. No way to treat you.”  
  
“That doesn't make sense.” Jonathan hissed. “Did I say why?”

“At length.” Geoffrey answered, folding his arms. “But, honestly, Reid? I think you were full of shit.”

“I hope so.” Jonathan agreed. “How is …how are you, Sean?”

Geoffrey answered for him. “He's pretty torn up. He'll needs a day's sleep at least.” The Hunter's tone darkened. _“Don't_ make him talk.”

It was that which made the rest fall into a picture.

Geoffrey's breathless shock when he had first cried out. His hostility thereafter. The familiar tightness of the skin around his chin. The tang in the back of a throat that did not burn with thirst. Running out his tongue, he tasted blood on his beard, barely dry.  
  
 _Sean._

This has only just happened. Mere minutes ago.

“Let me see, Geoffrey. I need to check the wound.”

“No.” Flat and firm. “No, Reid. He'll be fine. I damn near gave him everything I had, since he was bleeding out half of it at the same time. It's closed up now. He'll be fine.”

“You should -,” Jonathan started, and broke off. He should, what? Take him to the hospital? Of course not. Absurdly, Geoffrey was the best person to care for Sean; the only one who knew how much a Skal might recover from.

Geoffrey seemed to follow his train of thought, snorting once more as he went back to Sean, helping the man to sit. Jonathan tried not to think about the brief, intimate overlay of their hands, nor the way the smaller figure leaned on Geoffrey with absolute trust. Anger had come too easily. It could return just as easily.  
  
Once Sean was settled, Geoffrey turned a chair around for himself, sitting upright, alert, staring at Reid with his thumbs resting under his chin.

“So.”

Jonathan had given up trying to move and instead hung limp in the chains, heavy under the weight of understanding. “This is your area of expertise, Hunter. I will follow your lead.”

Geoffrey snorted. “Oh, don't be so bloody dramatic.”

“It seems appropriate, in the circumstances.”

Another laugh, bitter and hollow. “Fine then, let's chat. We'll start at the beginning, go through it all, and see just how full of shit you were.” The crimson figure fiddled with something; a notebook, judging by the sound of paper. “And we carry on until it wears off, or until we discover it won't.”

“Alright. But Geoffrey,” Jonathan felt his throat tighten. “How... How are you convalescing?”

The Hunter did not move. He contemplated the question in perfect, inhuman stillness. Finally, he drew a breath and sighed. “Your damn cure worked. Better to save gabbing on the rest for when we've got time to burn.”  
  
****  
  
They talked through what remained of the night, trading minutia, clarifying details, speaking in depth as McCullum scribbled in his notebook. They talked in excruciating detail about the disease, the nature of Skal blood and Ekon physiology, the possibilities for treatment, possible means of artificially suppressing the thirst, of sedating Reid in an emergency. They even spoke briefly on what McCullum should best pass on to the Brotherhood for another's future efforts, if they failed.

In short, Geoffrey took an interest in the work he'd wholly disdained before now, and Jonathan could not enjoy it in the least. As the hours moved past them, other things crept in. Only a few half-heard voices, at first. Mild hallucinations.

The paranoia, however, built quickly.

Jonathan admitted to that, before he could think better of it. Geoffrey wrote it down, noting the time.

“If I come in there,” The Hunter asked, “Will you behave?”

“I can try, Geoffrey.”

“That'll have to do.”

This time, Jonathan drank the bottle Geoffrey put to his lips. It was preserved blood, cold and thin and laced with sodium citrate, but it bore the drugs into his system unobserved. The voices receded. Logic prevailed. They talked on.

The sun rose. Sean slept fitfully. For as long as they could, they kept going.  
  
When the stillness of sleep was becoming impossible to shake off, deadening his limbs, Jonathan called a halt to the interrogation. He could feel the storm brewing in his skull. Without anchor or safe harbour, that tide terrified him more than he could express. To lose his mind... to lose his mind was a fate that made death seem preferable.

“Geoffrey.” Jonathan said, striking out for the shore. “Will you answer one question, at least?”

“Depends what it is.”

“Have you....Have you been calling me 'Jon'?”  
  
McCullum barked a laugh. “Well. I have. What of it?”

“If I had known this is all it would take...for you to use my first name.” Jonathan hissed. The laugh was thin; forced, but he had needed it.

“I'm just full of surprises” Geoffrey chuckled, equally forced, equally strained.

“But, well, Geoffrey, _no one_ calls me Jon.”

“Yeah.” The Hunter said, sounding uncomfortable, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That was the point. I remembered your pal, what-was-his-name, Crosswise.”

“Crossley.” Jonathan supplied, recalling the sickly pallor of his childhood friend, remembering the gin-spiked succour of his blood.

“That's the one. He called you Jonny. So did your ma. I figured it was off the table.”

“I see.” Jonathan smiled, feeling the lethargy creeping along his limbs. He did not want to sleep. He feared he knew the dreams that waited for him. A thought struck him. He jerked his head up, snarling. “Geoffrey!”

The Hunter sighed, heavily. He sounded resigned. “Hello beast. Is that you coming back then?”

“What? No. Geoffrey.” Jonathan snarled. “You _spoke_ with my mother?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“When?!”  
  
“Early on.” Geoffrey's head titled to one side. “After that first time in the hospital, I think. Before the theatre anyway.” He laughed, wearily. “You were a slippery bastard outside of Pembroke, but you lot are easy to track as a group. Toffs, I mean.”

The red tide was rising in Jonathan's chest; a rage so rich he could taste it. “Did you – Did you tell her -”  
  
“No, beast.” Geoffrey waved a hand, “No. I was never _that_ much of a bastard. Remember, as far as I was concerned, her son was dead and murdered and you were just a particularly chatty corpse.” A pause, perhaps for a smirk. “A shame really. He seemed like a decent man, if a bit up himself.”

Jonathan exhaled, uncertain what to make of this raw sense of _relief._ “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” Geoffrey grunted back. At first, Jonathan assumed that would be the end of it. He felt heavy, resigned now to the nightmare to come. Geoffrey forestalled it again, however, by asking, “Why do you care anyway? I'm guessing she knew, by the end. I saw the body.”  
  
Jonathan had to work to remember. “No, I don't believe she did. Not really.”  
  
“I just assumed...” McCullum shrugged. “Well, I admit I assumed a lot back then.”  
  
Rage twisted into outrage, despite the weight of the sun. “You assumed I killed my own mother?!”  
  
“Are you telling me you didn't?”

“No!” His own appalled shout echoed in the confined space. “My sister did. I – I couldn't stop her. I _would_ have stopped her.”

McCullum stared at him. Jonathan growled.

With slow, leaden movements, Geoffrey pulled himself out of the chair and came closer, to rest his hand on what Jonathan assumed were the bars of the cage.

“You choose some damn strange spots to carve out your morality, Reid.”

As his outrage crumbled, Jonathan felt only grief; the painful need to return the touch. “We do have that in common.”

“True enough. And Jon?”

“Yes?”

“It's been good to talk to you again. Try not to be too batshit crazy when you wake up?”  
  
As he sagged, slipping towards the red chasm waiting for him, Jonathan managed to say. “I can try.”


	8. The fight for breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So do not fear, for I am with you" ~ Isaiah 41:10
> 
> Alone in the dark, the dragon would be lost forever. It is well then, that others come to bring him light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Jaysis. So, MORE things happened IRL, but this fic is FAR from dead and will live to completion so long as I have anything to say about it! Thank you for sticking with and for all your *amazing* comments on this series. They truly kept dragging me back to my love of writing even when things were rough.)

Sunset stirred his blood at last and he smiled. Crimson coils were sprawled by the foot at the cage. The Hunter had fallen asleep.  
  
He lunged, but the Hunter was awake too; snatching himself away on shadows too fast to catch. Jonathan reached out after him, chasing the blood even as the chains checked his body, riding the rage and the _need_ to pounce and punish.

The pain, as always, was blinding. He flinched, howling, as the now-familiar sting of silver and holy sigils ensnared him. Every cell and sinew seemed to burn, white hot and agonising, before he was flung back down into his body.

Across the room, the Hunter sighed. “Good evening, beast.”

Jonathan hissed, seething. His tongue ran out, dabbing at the dried flecks in the corners of his mouth. Despite his ravenous rage, or perhaps because of it, his smile returned. “I almost had you, Hunter.”

“Almost.” The Hunter sounded tired. “Too bad for you, it's never close enough.”  
  
Jonathan turned his head, catching every sound as the Hunter moved about the room. The fridge opened with a hiss and click. A sharp clink of cold bottles. Then, ah, the heavy slide of seasoned wood... he had taken up the solid oak cudgel.

His lips tightened as the venom in his veins ripened. “Do you expect me to drink from that? Willingly?”  
  
“Do you expect me to mind?”  
  
Wrath sang through his nervous; as impatient as excitement yet devoid of pleasure. “Come in then, Hunter.” He growled, “And let us see who gets their way.”  
  
“Fair warning, beast.” The Hunter grumbled, as he hefted his weapon. “I'm not in the mood. Make this awkward, and you've only got yourself to blame.”  
  
****  
  
A basso rumble, a rough irish brogue. The taste of medicated blood on his tongue and the scattered memories of recent violence.  
  
“Alright then, Jon. What's the plan?”

Once again, they revisited the problem. Once again, they modified the medication.  
  
Once again, he slept and awoke with the ecstatic crackle of mending bones along his cheek and knew that he had relapsed.

“So, what was the plan if that didn't work?”  
  
Geoffrey spoke around his cigarette, blotting the air between them with endless cigarette smoke. It seemed that he was always smoking these days. He had confessed that 'the sucking helps' but refused to explain further; another hint that his Hunter was still reeling, another problem that Jonathan could do _nothing_ about. It would have been infuriating, if he could have afforded to let himself feel that.

“I don't know.” Jonathan admitted, head low, feeling strangely wounded. “I don't have one.”  
  
“Pull the other one.”  
  
“I can't perform miracles, Geoffrey.” The rough edges of the beast drove into his voice. “I can only examine hypotheses. Only experiment. Science has its limits.”

“Of all the times for you to get humble, beast.” A harsh drag, another coiling waft of burnt air. “Now is not the fucking time. There was a plan in that mad head of yours, when you let yourself get caught. What was it?”

It sounded all too much like an interrogation; itself a brutal reminder that this was far from the first time Geoffrey had questioned a captive vampire, nor the first time Jonathan had been the subject. Memories flashed; separate events merging, swelling the red ride.

“What are you hoping to hear, Hunter?” Jonathan snarled, “There was no plan. I expected you to end it. That was all. You were supposed to _put me down_.”

The words echoed. Geoffrey stared ahead, as if a shot had been fired, as if he was searching for the gun.  
  
“I couldn't think of any other way.” Jonathan hissed. “That hasn't changed. I can't _think._ Not clearly. Not well _enough._ ”

Geoffrey didn't answer. He only raised the cigarette again and drew; a long, slow drag that filled his lungs and scorched it to the filter. When he spoke at last, he sounded thoughtful.

“No. I don't buy it, Jon. You _always_ deny it. I'll buy that you don't realise it, half the time, but it's always ticking away in there. You're always putting it together, even if you don't notice it.”

The Hunter squatted down, looking up. Jonathan could _almost_ make out his face, mapped in the web of capillaries. For a long moment, Geoffrey simply looked up at him, scanning his face for God-knew-what. Then, he lit another cigarette off the embers of the last.

“So, what's the plan?”

Rage prickled on the nape of Jonathan neck; a subtle sensation to match the rolling tide. “Your faith is misplaced.”

Geoffrey's short laugh was empty of any real humour. “ _My_ faith doesn't come into it, beast.”  
  
Jonathan grimaced. “Regardless.”  
  
He trailed off there, recognising the ache that marked the rising anger, the subtle flashes at the corners of his vision. His stomach was clenching, trying to draw his bound legs up into a crouch.

With a long, slow breath, he unwound, manually and meticulously, grounding himself in what he knew was real. Cage. Geoffrey. Chains. Cold air. Rats. He drove the heat down into embers, and then on into the cooler depths. He recognised his resentment, and released it. He recognised his frustration, and released it too. Meditative, relentless, he charted his own mind as best he could.

Gallingly, it was then that he heard it. A simple sound, so familiar as to be overlooked. Possibilities unfurled, like thirsty leaves at a touch of rain.

It was _difficult_ to not sound resentful as he growled. “I think I have an... idea.”

 _If_ Geoffrey smirked, at least he didn't say 'I told you so'.  
  
****  
  
“Oh, no.”  
  
The cup slid from Edgar Swansea's hand. Had he tried to, he might have caught it even as it fell.

He considered this, as it broke apart into twelve shining fragments. It had been empty. Empty. Nothing lost, after all. His shoulders slumped. As Jonathan's presence darkened the room, Dr Swansea did not regret the lack of effort on his part.

“Jonathan.” He said by way of greeting.

“Edgar.” The low growl shivered over his skin. The sensation of clawed fingers closed around his chin, forcing his head up to meet two reptilian eyes. Jonathan had become quite sophisticated with these tactile hallucinations.  
  
The image wavered. Grotesque and absurd though it was, a hint of confusion entered the inhuman gaze. “Where are you? This isn't Pembroke.”  
  
Panic seized him. A disgraceful, mammalian reaction he wished he could stop having. The words bubbled out, disordered and disarrayed. “Am I supposed to be in Pembroke? Please, Jonathan, I didn't know. I can set off immediately if only you'll allow me -”  
  
But Jonathan was already drawing back, withdrawing the spectral sensations and leaving Edgar cold and apprehensive. There was no point continuing to plead. It was wretched enough when Jonathan lashed out, only to share his misery, to convey the true horror of the disease Swansea had created. To have given him direct cause for disappointment... well, surely, that was a crime intolerable.

Edgar waited.

Jonathan's voice returned. “Is this what you wanted, Edgar?”

Incongruously, he felt comforted by the old, familiar question. ' _Fear magnifies in uncertainty',_ he recalled... though not who had said it.

Meanwhile, his own voice was babbling. “- A monkey's paw. You must know how much I regret my choices, now.”

“ _Enough_.”  
  
Hunching his shoulders, Edgar pressed his lips together. Now, Jonathan would step closer, and it would begin. Edgar was as ready as he could be, as he ever was.

The malevolent shade hesitated.

“I need your eyes, Edgar.” Jonathan said simply. “Can you get back to Pembroke tonight? Safely?”

“Wh-” Edgar began to stammer and caught himself. “Yes. Yes, of course. I could be there in an hour.”

“Good. I will return in two.” His monstrous baritone lingered, sotto voce, as the darkness dissolved.

Alone, Swansea stared, baffled, at the empty wall. Then he snatched up his bag and began to run.  
  
***

“You're hungry.” Geoffrey stated, without inflection. It wasn't a question.

“It's been far worse than this. I can manage.”

“No.” Geoffrey said. Again, his tone was empty. Not an accusation. “You can't.”

The sound of fangs on flesh was enough to throw him, briefly but completely, into the tide. By the time he fought it back, Geoffrey was inside the cage, holding a cup to his lips.  
  
“Welcome back.” The Hunter's lips turned up in a wry smile, perceptible by the flush of capillaries. “Don't try to tough this one out, Reid. You're going to need it, if he does anything to piss you off. And he will.”  
  
The blood was a cocktail of testosterone and the sweet tang of a recent hunt, full bodied and strong. For a bare moment, it doused the fire and left him utterly replete. Then the embers flared. The fire tore through it, leaving him with only the memory. All being well, that would be enough.  
  
***  
  
True to his word, Jonathan did return. He was a little early, but that was no matter. Edgar was already waiting.  
  
He had left the room more or less untouched, despite the ever-growing requests from the remainder of the staff. Swansea had been utterly unable to repurpose it. It was _Jonathan's_ and, absurdly, even though Pembroke was _his_ hospital, he could not bring himself to intrude. Another quirk of the Ekon condition, one he supposed he _couldn't_ master, but that was alright. 

Together, they bustled about the workstation; a vampire and his ethereal maker, working together. After so long, he felt something like a _scientist_ again, as if Jonathan might actually welcome the insights he had to share, the unique experience and discoveries he had made before they ever met. Of course, his Maker kept him ruthlessly on task, but he could expect no less of a man in that kind of agony.

When Swansea finally took the product of their night's labours across town to meet Geoffrey McCullum, he did so with confidence. For the first time in months, he knew with certainty that he was beyond harm. Not only was he atoning; he was indispensable, and Jonathan knew it.

As he skirted the dawn back to his small abode, the skull smiled in the recesses of his bag. For once, Swansea was smiling too.

***  
  
“And if this doesn't work?” The Hunter asked, settling down outside the cage.

“Then we'll try again.” Jonathan murmured. He felt _exhausted_. He had projected himself into Swansea's mind for hours, far longer than he'd thought was possible. “I have other ideas, now that I have a means.”  
  
“Good to have you back on form, beast.”

Jonathan only growled; a low, grumbling sound, without any real malice to it.

“Reid?” Geoffrey said, forcefully, as though he'd already said it a few times. For once, Jonathan had been weary enough to drift, losing focus without descending into the tide.

“I'm awake.”

“Thought you'd better know. He looks like shit.”

“I... can imagine.” Jonathan admitted. More reluctantly, he cobbled together the energy to ask, “Are you aware of what I've been doing to him? Prior to the chlorate, I mean.”  
  
“Aye. Well enough.” Geoffrey muttered.

“I don't remember it.”

“Count it a blessing and keep it that way.” Geoffrey recommended curtly. Despite that, he shifted his weight in manner that suggested, to one well aquainted with his moods, that he had more to say. As always, it didn't take long for his restraint to wear thin.

“Look, Reid. I won't say he didn't deserve a little more punishment, once, and a damn sight more than my men did to him but – hell...”  
  
“Geoffrey?” The incongruity broke through Jonathan's grey mood. “Are you about to counsel mercy? For _Swansea_?”  
  
“Maybe." Geoffrey sounded just as bemused. "I have my moments of insanity these days. I can be a right bleeding heart.”

“Evidence of balance in the universe, I'm sure.” As the spark of surprise faded,exhaustion enfolded him completely. He sagged back and let his head loll, barely managing to murmur, "I will think on it."

  
****  
  


So it went, night after night, adjusting the serum by degrees. At first, it was not strong enough. Then Jonathan lost an entire happy night to delirium. Yet, every night, they crept closer, until the evening came when Jonathan fully awoke to find Geoffrey barely stirring and Sean stepping back with the empty needle.

In the crystalline clarity of waking, Jonathan knew that they had done it. It was a strangely familiar feeling, very close to the sense of having caught up on sleep. Pink, peaceful, and restful. His mind was his own, distinct from the distant, red-tinted muttering.

And Sean was still inside the cage.

A mistake.

A critical mistake.

The hunger was its own kind of sickness; another expression of the disease, enough to command his attention at the best of times, and his obedience at the worst.

Sean froze outwardly, like a rabbit trying to escape notice by a fox, but beneath the surface his pulse hammered. It glinted along the alluring curve of his radial artery, around to where his hand rested over his heart. All around him, a cloud of warm odours exuded from his clothes, his hair, his skin; the scents of the living.

 _Sean_. He thought, as he sipped at those wonderful aromas.  
  
The little Skal's breath hitched and a pleased, low rumble shook in Jonathan's chest. He could feel Sean shiver in delight and terror. A mix of pleasure and dread, of warring impulses. Adrenaline pinched into his veins. Yet he couldn't run; Jonathan was holding him, cupping him gently amid the bonds of blood.

 _If_ he bit, he would take only a little, only enough to soothe the raw edges of the thirst. No more than that. Sean need not be afraid. Gently, eagerly, Jonathan began to pull.

_Please, no..._

A hard place, inside Sean's chest. A hunger. Teeth bared and bloody.

_You are not an animal._

Jonathan hesitated, caught in the rising dream of rending flesh, of splitting arteries, of open veins. He tasted the bile, rising, venom curdling affection into hatred. How _dare_ he ...After all he had endured, after all he had -

The spell broke. The red haze revealed itself, raw and raging, and thirsty to take, take, take. His tongue was dry and Mary – oh, God, _Mary_ – rested her chin on his arm and told him that he always poisoned those he loved.

“ _GET OUT._ ”

Sean lurched backwards, kicking out. Abruptly, Geoffrey was there, arriving in a slice of shadow, wrenching the door open with a grunt of pain and the smell of cooking flesh, dragging Sean through it, kicking it closed behind them.

Jonathan ignored the desperate panting, the muttered curses as Geoffrey checked Sean for sign of injury, physical or psychological. He thought only _within_ , pressing out the wrath, driving himself down into the cooler depths.

In that coldness, he found himself, and waited.

After a long time, it was Geoffrey who returned to the bars of the cage. His voice was raw, rough at the edges. His skin carried the smell of Sean.

“Well done.” He said, low.

Jonathan did not trust himself to answer. The reassurances he wanted to give were far from foremost on his tongue.

*******  
  
Now, at last, Jonathan began to feel grounded, as though Mary and all the swarming images were simply unfolding outside, seen through a window while he worked within.  
  
“It's not a perfect remedy.” Jonathan admitted reluctantly. “But I think we're as close as we will get with the current state of psychopathology.”

“Well, you sound more like yourself anyway.” Geoffrey agreed. “If a little less sassy than I'm used to.”  
  
“Careful what you wish for, Hunter.” Jonathan warned, but his smile was genuine. “I need you to take samples of our blood – mine and yours – to Swansea. Rest assured, I'll make sure they're properly disposed of afterwards.” He paused, uncertain how to broach the topic of Priwen, and their hunt for the perpetrators of a slaughter. “Are the streets quiet enough for you to travel there regularly? I would prefer to view samples every night, if I can.”  
  
“I'll manage.”  
  
***  
  
When Sean came back, days later, he came alone. A mild, self-contained figure, staring in silence at the cage and the monster within it.

Jonathan watched him, equally silent, equally inexpressive. He remembered _enough,_ enough to know that the way between them was choked with petty cruelties. Of course, because of who he was, Sean would find a way to forgive him. That didn't mean that he could forget. Nor did it mean that he _should._

Jonathan knew now where his own path would have lead him, in time. The desires of the disease were not alien, only exaggerated, twisted. He might have been able to convince himself otherwise in time. But Sean did not have the luxury of forgetting.

Then Sean moved. Slowly at first, all his body language compressed into as small a space as it might occupy. As he set down a stool, the wooden click echoed on the empty walls, followed by the fluttering sound of pages.

Then Sean cleared his throat and pushed the silence – and his fear - away. Jonathan _felt_ the way Sean marshalled his own resources, summoning strength from some inexhaustible source. There was no hint of a tremor in his voice, no sign of the apprehension Jonathan could see hammering in his heart.  
  
Steadily, softly, he began to read aloud.  
  
Jonathan's throat tightened.  
  
Sean read to him as he had read scripture to countless troubled sleepers in the grim and miserable hours of the night. In lyrical tones, warm and strangely sincere regardless of the subject matter. Yet, this wasn't scripture. Not at all.

Tears broke, seeping bloody under the rim of the hood.

These were notes he had requested from his colleagues... what felt like a lifetime ago. Sean had kept them, kept them to read to Jonathan when he was sane enough to listen. Through all that had happened, Sean had remembered, and kept them. As if he saw no reason not to pick up, in some fashion, where he had left off. As if there was a way he might still be that doctor, even now.

 _Oh, my Sad Saint._ He thought, though he could not bring himself to speak. _Thank you._  
  
Sean stopped, lifting his head in surprise.

“Of course, Jonathan. You are welcome, as always.”


	9. The precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thou art careful and troubled about many things, but only one thing is needful ~ Luke 10:41
> 
> Careful and cautious can only last so long.

“You didn't need to send him packing.” Geoffrey chided him when he came back to the cage. He was walking lightly, his left hand cupped upwards; carrying something Jonathan couldn't see. “He meant well.”

“Geoffrey. Please.” Jonathan fixed his mind on the point that had been stewing there for hours. “You must ensure he does not come down here alone. Use whatever you must to restrain him.” He winced, resenting the words. “For whatever it matters, you _do_ have my permission.”  
  
He wasn't certain what reaction he'd expected, but it wasn't this. Geoffrey only slowed his advance, peering in at him with an odd smile. “Well, now. I could get used to you on drugs, Reid. That was practically accommodating.”

“No games, Hunter.” Jonathan hissed, letting the hunter hear the pain that being so 'accommodating' caused him. “He hears me now. As easily as you did. This cage won't protect him. I can do... I have _so many_ options...”

“Easy.” Geoffrey said quickly, and there was an unaccustomed concern in his voice. “What are you worried about? You can't think I'd have let him come down here, without keeping a watch?”  
  
“You were listening?”

“Of course.” Geoffrey rumbled, “Trust me, if you'd taken a turn, I'd have stepped in.”

In hindsight, it was obvious, but that didn't keep the tide from muttering its paranoid frenzy. Geoffrey was toying with him, it told him. Geoffrey was laying traps, seeing what the trapped leech would do. He shook his head, forcing them away.  
  
When Jonathan didn't respond, Geoffrey's voice became lighter, almost teasing. It ought to have been enticing, but it wasn't. “Come on, Reid. I'd think you'd know me better by now. I'm not daft.”

“You sent him?”

“No.” Geoffrey waved the suggestion away. “But I let him. Company would do you good.”

“How could you be so reckless? I could have - ”

“You didn't though.” Geoffrey interrupted, “Could have. _Didn't._ You've no reason to hurt him.”

“Don't be obtuse. This sickness doesn't need a reason.” Jonathan seethed, feeling the claws break the surface of his skin.

“Aye, but it's not running things any more. “

“It's still _there,_ Geoffrey.”

“Sure.” For the first time since he had come downstairs, Geoffrey paused. It was hard to make out his expression at this distance but, after another long moment of peering in at him, he set down his burden. It rang with a wooden, hollow sound, strangely distorted. Liquid contents. Not blood, but he thought he caught a hint of soap on the air.

“Don't crucify yourself on his behalf.” Geoffrey sounded almost _cheerful_. “He won't thank you for it.”

“That's not the _point_.” Jonathan's attention snapped back. He ran his tongue along his teeth. It was an obscene gesture, one he barely had control over this close to the edge. “This isn't an irrational fear. It wouldn't require any length of time. A brief lapse, and I could kill him.”

When Geoffrey didn't speak, didn't move, he snarled into the silence. “I will hurt him, Geoffrey. My madness is of a very different ilk to yours. You _have_ to listen to me.”

“No, beast.” Geoffrey snapped back. “You shut up and _you_ listen.” Then he broke off, grumbling, “This shouldn't be me. But if you won't pull your knickers out of your arse, it's me you're stuck with.”

With some violence, Geoffrey reached out and dragged Sean's seat over, setting it down in front of the cage. It was a much more aggressive position than the Saint had dared.

“You've spouted a lot of shit at me these past few weeks.” The Hunter began. “I don't take it personally, but I've heard enough to pin things together.” His voice lowered to a growl. “You're fucking terrified, Jon. Not that you don't have some cause to be – you're the scariest fucking thing in any room, and you've got voices in your head that are worse.”

Jonathan shook his head. “You know it's only a broken mirror. I still like what I see. I still _want_ -”

“Shut up, beast. Shut up and listen. The Saint would have put it to you gently, but you're stuck with me now.”  
  
Something in the voice, not quite a command but resonant like one, made Jonathan tilt his head. An animalistic gesture. One that came from the blood.

Perhaps oblivious, Geoffrey went on. “You've got an albatross around your neck, Reid. Have done as long as I've known you. It's _not_ the only thing that made you the way you are, but it's the one that makes you worse than you ought to be.” He tapped his fingers against a his leg. “It's the thing that drags you down. That's why it's using her face.”  
  
“My sister is no secret between us, Hunter.”  
  
“No. But you haven't cut the guilt loose, Reid. At every turn, you've tried to _own_ it, to justify it. There comes a time where you _have_ to live and learn. Anything else is suicide, fast or slow.”

“Cut the guilt loose?” Jonathan intoned, feeling fangs prick his lips. “Like you did?”

“Exactly like I _didn't,_ beast.” Geoffrey snarled back. “And you were right about that. If I gave any ground on what leeches _were_ , if I let them be as bad as _people_ can be, then that _was_ my brother I put a stake through.”

All at once, Geoffrey tirade tumbled into silence, as if he were just as shocked to hear himself say it. Despite his outrage, Jonathan stilled. He could not attack into that raw wound. He would not.

“Iain.” Geoffrey went on slowly, heavily. “He went through the same shit as me, except he had the hunger alongside. Hell, maybe if someone else had stepped in with me, I'd have turned out better than I did. But Iain didn't have a hope in hell. By the time I got to him, there's not a damn thing else I could have done even if Carl would have stood for it, which he wouldn't have. Iain was too far gone. Far, too far gone.” Geoffrey drew a long breath. It occurred to Jonathan that, for the first time in a long while, he wasn't smoking. “The thing I regret, now, is that I didn't realise that. There are things I should have said to him.” Geoffrey straightened, “But we're not talking about me.”

“It sounds as though we are.”

“No, beast. The point is that we got put through the same hell. I killed my own brother, even if I only realised it recently. You killed your sister. The difference is, I know I was a stupid kid, and Carl – damn him – was Carl. You still act like you had the same control then as you do now. You hold onto it like you _chose_ to do it.”  
  
“It's part of who I am, Geoffrey. Just like you.”

“Aye. But it's not all I am.”  
  
Jonathan snarled. He was beginning to loathe those words. Who had said them first? Had it been him?

“And what happened with your sister, it's your albatross. You're going to let it kill you.” Geoffrey spread his hands. “Suicide. Fast or slow. And you wonder why you're so fucking terrified of the little Saint.”

“No, Geoffrey.” Jonathan felt the coldness creeping into his limbs. He felt more _himself_ again, wrapped around the anger. “I'm not afraid _of_ him.”

“Oh, put that away, beast.” Geoffrey snarled dismissively. “I'm not buying it.”

Jonathan ignored him. “And I laid Mary to rest. I swore I would put an end to the epidemic, and I did.”

“Except.” Geoffrey said, calm but relentless. “For the little Saint.”

A cold spot. In the centre of his chest. As if he couldn't breathe though he didn't _need_ to breathe.

“Aye.” Geoffrey said, though he sounded far away. “That. Ignore all the rest that's going on between you two. Every day you see him, you remember it's not done.”  
  
Jonathan lost the focus he needed to sense the world through the blood. Once again, he was plunged into darkness, left with only Geoffrey's voice. It was that voice which kept him from regaining his concentration. It was that voice that needed to _stop_.  
  
“Of course, there's an easy way to solve that. But the bloody man proves every day why the _easy_ way isn't the right way.”

He wouldn't have needed to be monstrous. A sharp pull. A broken neck. Quick and peaceful. But now... now it was too late. Sean wasn't the only one cultivating the disease and yet, and yet...  
  
“And last of all,” The voice growled. “Because that _matters_ to you, every bloody day he reminds you that you're not the same monster that you think you are. That you're not beyond feeling that fucking grief and guilt.”

He _could_ do it, of course. In Jonathan's mind, he saw a heart, still beating. Inhumanly slow, but _beating_ nevertheless. If he only reached out with his will, if he only closed his fist around that heart...  
  
The voice knew, of course. “You couldn't kill him then, and you're not going to now.” A creak, like a jaw unhinging. “And I'll prove it to you.”  
  
Too late, Jonathan realised that the voice was much _closer_ now. They both were; one silver and sweet, the other rough and warm. One said _Don't Listen,_ the other said _Listen._ One was female. One was male. He couldn't tell which was which. He couldn't tell...

“Jon.” Yes, the voice was very close. “Fucking look at me.”  
  
He didn't listen. He _must not_ listen. The voices were not him. He was mad.

_Mad, is that what I am? I had wondered._

“Jon.”

_There's a hole in my chest, Jonny._

“For fuck's sake.”

_Always the last word._

A sensation crawled along the back of Jonathan's head. A snap and release. The sense of something coming _undone_. He jerked his head; a violent, jarring motion, as if he could shake it off.

No. No, he could not lose his grip on reality now. He could not slip now. He had come so far. He had done so much. And yet, the back of his head was opening like an egg, like a layer of skin sliding free and -  
  
Light. Blinding after so long in darkness.

“There we are.”

Geoffrey, hand outstretched, as the hood came away into his hands.

As if a thread had been cut, Jonathan came crashing down into his own body. He gasped. He sucked air he didn't need, harder than he had in the pit. Like a drowning man. Like a living man.

“Easy.” The Hunter was crooning, “Like I said, Sean would have put it to you more gently, in time. But you had to go and be an arse about it.”

The floor beneath Jonathan was filthy with dried blood. Still, he could _see_ it. He could see it and know that it was he, himself, seeing it.  
  
For the first time, he realised he was kneeling amid the chains, arms splayed back and up to either side, held back by the mechanisms. Chains that ran into one another, meaning that if he pulled on one, he pulled upon another, causing him to swing, causing him to loose his footing.

Clever. His clever Hunter.

Geoffrey.

He glanced up, then down again, flinching. The Hunter was close. So close, he could have touched him if he'd tried. Dangerously close.

“You shouldn't touch me.” Geoffrey said, reasonably. “If you do, it'll all be over. You'd worm your way into my head and that would be that. She wins. You're free. Whatever happens, happens, until the Guard – or something worse – catches up with us.”  
  
Jonathan's throat was too dry to speak. He swallowed.  
  
Geoffrey squatted down in front of him, bringing their faces level though Jonathan kept his eyes low to the ground. Dangerous. Despite the mechanisms at work, Geoffrey was now squarely within the arc of his arms. If he was quick, if he took the angle _just_ right....

“And She'd have you kill the Saint, because he's the one reminder that _this_ isn't all you are.”  
  
Jonathan shuddered.

“So. Now's the time you find out _who_ is control. Because I already know, Jon. And so does he. You just need to catch up.”

It would have been poetic. It would have been magnificent. Jonathan could almost feel Geoffrey's flesh under his claws, already imagine the despair and shock as his Maker seized his mind and tore downwards. He _wanted_ it. He wanted to show Geoffrey that all his bluster, all his planning, was nothing against the storm of his madness, or the venom distilling in his veins. It was a part of him. It always had been. The hunger. The vice. Mendel's Laws, bestowing upon him the darkness in his father's soul; the fear that made him _run._

Mendel's Laws. There was... something there, he realised. Something to do with the blood. Something about heredity.

Something to do with Mary.

_I dug my way out of this grave with my fingers and teeth._

Startled, feeling himself slip, he jerked, feeling the corresponding tug of the chains. He knew then, that he would not lunge for Geoffrey. Though _she_ whispered, though she wanted him to. He would not. He looked up.

And felt it all come crashing down.

“Oh, Geoffrey.” He whispered. “I'm so sorry.”  
  
Dark eyes. Hungry like his. The endless blue swallowed and drowning in the pools of blood.

Grief and guilt hollowed out his chest. Even so, a deeper hunger rose like the far end of a lever; a longing perilously close to the red tide. For all those eyes represented, they were as beautiful now as ever before. Strength and power, wrapped in the miasmic masculinity of his clever Hunter. A sort of bestial pride swelled, overruling the emptiness in his heart.

Geoffrey frowned at him, catlike pupils shivering as his focus skipped between Jonathan's eyes. Then, he seemed to understand.   
  
“Oh.” He turned his face away. “That. I don't want your pity, Reid. Much less your sympathy. I did this to myself.”  
  
“Hardly.” Jonathan breathed.

“You know what I mean.” The Hunter growled.

“Yes.” Jonathan leaned into the chains. “But, I disagree.”

Geoffrey wasn't merely reeling from the strain of keeping his Maker captive. Snippets of information were coming together, easily disregarded in isolation, now forming a complete picture. The endless smoking because 'the sucking' helped. The way Geoffrey took control of conversations so that they felt like interrogations. The sweet satisfaction when Geoffrey gave him his blood, always rich with the taste of a recent hunt.

But then, how could he have released control so far as to put himself in Jonathan's power? To step this close and risk it all, while his blood was screaming at him not to relent.

Moving ahead of his thoughts, Jonathan's gaze followed the Hunter's arm. He saw the cudgel at last, held lightly, but at an angle to swipe Jonathan aside. Despite his whirling thoughts, it made him smile.

“You weren't certain, that I wouldn't try.”

“No.” The Hunter said obscurely. “I was sure. If you hadn't managed it this time, we'd have tried again later.”

 _Take him_ . The voices whispered. _He's toying with you._

He ignored them.

“You can't let me out, Geoffrey.” He said instead. “It will be all the more powerful when the hunger takes me...”  
  
“No fear of that, beast.” Geoffrey sounded almost cheerful. “I'm not letting you out for a damn long time. But notice how, right now, you're not attacking me. You're not attacking him. You're making a choice, Reid. Yours. Not Hers.”

“How could you have known - “ He started, then stopped. The answer was obvious.

“Aye. He hears you. We both know you can handle it, that you're in control when you need to be. It's past time you did too.” With a smile that was almost joyful, Geoffrey slung the cudgel out through the silvered bars. “It's time to face the monster, Jon, and kill the bitch.”  
  
*****  
  
“I'm not certain She _is_ something that can be killed.” Reid had said. Geoffrey had agreed with him at the time, claiming it was a turn of phrase and scolded Jonathan for knowing what he damn well meant. In truth, he didn't think 'killed' was the word either. 'Neutered', perhaps. Or maybe 'undone'.

There were things Reid _couldn't_ know. Most of them were just ants to the Red Queen; barely worthy of notice, if she was even aware of them at all. Not him. Geoffrey had only seen briefly into Reid's mind when the madness was in full throat; that time in the park when they'd come together in a storm of teeth.  
It had been enough. She was _aware_ of Reid. He was a limb to work through. Part of an old game in which they were all pawns.

Geoffrey had _always_ hated that about the old ones.  
  
So Reid couldn't know. As Geoffrey reached the top of the stairs, he affirmed that much in his mind. Whatever he might want to do for the poor beast, he couldn't give him the comfort of knowing that there was a plan. That might be tantamount to giving her notice.

You didn't win a game with a chess master by playing chess. You threw a ball at them and shouted 'game on'.

Charlotte and Sean turned from their conversation as he opened the door. There was a question in Charlotte's eyes, worried and wary. But in Sean's, there were answers; still bright, still hopeful, even dulled by pain as they had become lately.

Geoffrey nodded.

“The doctor's in. Let's get started.”


	10. The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I confess to almighty God  
> and to you, my brothers [and sisters],  
> that I have greatly sinned,  
> in my thoughts and in my words,  
> in what I have done and in what I have failed to do  
> ~ Confiteor
> 
> Better late than never. Geoffrey takes the step no one else has seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~ This took a long time to get this written down right. I don't know if anyone else has spotted this, or expanded it to its conclusion. But I hope you enjoy it as much as I did when I first plotted out Plaguebearer ;) ~~

The night was a miserable one, felt all the more for standing so close to shelter. Out here, the sour smell of stale fags oozed up from patches of soggy moss. Gusts of wind came and went without warning, whipping the lazy rain into flurries that slapped like an open palm.  
  
Through the open window Geoffrey could smell the human warmth, gunpowder and linens. Warm. Inviting. But they might as well be a world away without an invitation to allow him in.  
  
Still, it was a damn sight more comfortable than a hole in the chest. Which was also a fair prospect, right now.

“You've got some nerve.” The old hunter growled through half-clenched teeth, silhouetted in the window with the shotgun at his side like a loyal dog.

“I know, Jerry.” Geoffrey spread his hands, keeping his voice low. “But I needed to talk to someone who'd listen, and you're the only one worth a damn.”

“I'm the last person you should have come to.” Wilson countered, his own voice roughened and wrathful. “Talk to Talltree.”

“Bugger Talltree.” McCullum snapped, “I said 'worth a damn'.”

The moment he lost his temper, Wilson tensed. His finger tightened on the trigger. McCullum breathed out and carefully dragged himself back under control. He was trying to _not_ wonder what was in that chamber tonight. Rock salt and pollen? No. The sleepless circles under Wilson's eyes said that he suspected enough. If it came to it, he'd be hoping for a kill.

Even the _thought_ made his teeth ache, made his senses slant until all he saw was the glint of the gun, the pulse at the throat; all the things he'd need to know to kill Wilson first.

 _No, none of that,_ _you stupid leech_.  
  
“Jerry.” He tried again, lowering his voice. He spread his hands, showing empty palms, ignoring the way his nails itched under the shotgun's sights. “I came to share what I know. It's big. So let's not fuck about.” When Wilson only narrowed his eyes, McCullum scowled. “You want to know. Fucking ask.”

His wariness held out for a while. Wilson scanned McCullum's face, as if searching for cracks in a mask, then exhaled a long, slow breath. Wilson's voice, when he spoke, was empty. The gun never wavered.  
  
“Was it you? Two months back.”

“It wasn't...” He'd come prepared. Still, it was hard to say it. “It wasn't just me.”  
  
“You and Doctor Reid, then?”  
  
“Not just him either. But that's why I'm here. That's the -”

“ _Why,_ Geoff?” Wilson's calm broke. “Jesus Christ. You threw it all away. After _everything._ Two nights. Forty two people, _that we know of_.”

He was hissing out the words, loaded with the weight of betrayal and the beginnings of hatred. Like a cry of pain from a wounded animal. McCullum clenched his jaw as the beast inside him sat up, interest piqued.

 _Stop it._ _You stupid fucking leech._

No matter what Wilson did, even if it cost him a pound of flesh, Geoffrey would keep himself from striking back. No matter what.

He had already done enough harm here.

Wilson had tried. Dear God, he'd tried. For years, he'd balanced his ideals, always checking the scales of morality on the hard decisions he made. Geoffrey knew now that he'd let leeches go from time to time. He'd probably buried leads and God knew what else. But he'd never truly been a traitor. He might have been a Brotherhood plant, but he'd also been a damn fine Priwen soldier, cutting out the real monsters as keenly as any of them.

When he'd found out what Geoffrey had become, he hadn't flinched from the realities. He'd faced the truth head on, more so than Geoffrey in many ways. It had saved him from despair and grounded him right when Geoffrey could have lost himself in the monster. The other two plants, Davies and Smith, had helped. But McCullum had no doubt Wilson had been behind most of it. The old hunter staked everything on McCullum proving out what he believed, trusting that the balance would come right, if only McCullum was given a chance.  
  
And how had Geoffrey repaid him? In bodies. Too many bodies. It said everything that Wilson had counted them.

“It's a story. A long one. And it's what I came to share, Jerry.” McCullum admitted heavily. “I know what it looks like. I know what I'd be thinking in your shoes. I'd have pulled that trigger the moment I saw me. But whatever you else take away from this chat, however you choose to play this, you _need_ to hear me out.”

“Watch those words.” Wilson snarled. “I don't care who you used to be. If I feel so much as a fondness, I'll put a hole in you that won't heal up in a hurry.”

It was a good catch. McCullum nodded. “Fair point. I wasn't thinking.”  
  
An eddy of wind writhed across the roof; a flurry that slapped needles into his face. He didn't flinch. He held Wilson's eye and let the sky sling its insults. Comfort and pain weren't things he felt so much anymore. Grief and guilt? Now, those could last, if he welcomed them.

Wilson stared back, giving nothing away.

“So,” McCullum prompted. “How about it?”

The old hunter's gaze skipped sideways, and back. The glinting mouth dropped at last. Low, like a curse, he muttered. “Fuck's sake, Geoff. Stay there.”

As Wilson stepped out of sight, McCullum bunched his fists and held steady. He knew all too well what a Hunter might have to hand if a cocky leech gave him time to get it. But when Wilson reappeared, slinging a gray umbrella through the window, surprise made Geoffrey catch it without thinking.  
  
An umbrella. For the rain. Absurd and mundane at once. It was hard not to smile at it.

On cue, Wilson drawled the usually cheerful greeting of the Brotherhood. A little ritual. A sign of truce, even as he retrained the gun on Geoffrey's chest. “I trust everything is to your liking, Mr McCullum.”  
  
Geoffrey breathed out.

“You're the soul of hospitality.” He said, without a smile. “I'll give you the bare bones tonight, but I can't stay here long without being seen.”

“That's a chance you'll have to take.” The old hunter said implacably. Honestly, that gave Geoffrey a little ring of pride. So long as Wilson was kicking, the Guard was in good hands. “Say what you came here to say.”  
  
In the end, it was just shy of ten minutes before Geoffrey picked up a heavy step of a returning patrol and slipped away into the night. That was about six minutes more than he'd hoped for. Six extra minutes to talk about the fever, the Queen and the cure.  
  
As he left, he considered it a good sign that Wilson had started writing it down.  
  
***  
  
Reid had known he was gone. It had been too much to hope for, otherwise.

“You know,” Geoffrey purred, “It's sort of sweet how much you miss me.”  
  
Jonathan turned his face away, scowling. It actually was sweet, in its own peculiar way.

Naturally, it wasn't being caged that bothered the Great Dr Reid. Of course, it wasn't the metal encircling his throat, the blessed cuffs, the inscribed bars or the chains. No. There was one thing about this that bothered Dr Jonathan Reid above all else; having to rely upon another.  
  
It made the beast vulnerable, left him feeling exposed, and he didn't like it one bit.

“I'm back now.” Geoffrey murmured. Then, with light-hearted bravado. “If you want to vent, I can take it.“  
  
Jonathan's gaze snapped back up, skewering him with a blood red glare. In other circumstances, it would have carried a threat of real violence. As it was, it just made him look put-out.

“It's not a matter of being 'dramatic', Geoffrey.” Reid growled, licking dry lips. “I did not send Sean away to make a point. I did it to remove temptation. It was the only reasonable course, once you left him here without protection.”  
  
Geoffrey nodded, trying keep his smile discreet. “I didn't expect you to cotton on so soon. Must have been a nasty shock.”

“I 'cottoned on'.” Reid hissed sullenly, “I'm feverish, not comatose.”

The smile tugged at Geoffrey's lips again. He forced it back.  
  
“You should tell _her_ ,” Reid added sulkily, “That the perfume gives her away.”

“Ha!” Geoffrey barked. “Well done, beast. You're too clever for your own good.”

Reid was talking about Charlotte. She had done her job well, so far as he knew. Wary of Reid at the best of times, she had followed the plan meticulously; staying back, staying upstairs, keeping her heart beating to blend in with the living. She'd only been intended as a safeguard of last-resort, to step in if something went badly south. She should have been invisible amid the herd.

But, of course, Reid had found a way to spot her.

“I'll be sure to tell her.” Geoffrey promised warmly.  
  
Out of ammunition, all Jonathan had left was a low growl. Geoffrey swiped a cup off the side and came up close to the bars.

“You're trying to get a rise out of me, Jon, but it won't work.” He tapped the amulet, then tugged out the keys. “Trust me, you've been far worse than this.”  
  
Jonathan's eyes narrowed. Another cutting remark was forming, another attempt to compress and spit out the hurt. Geoffrey forestalled it, not with a blow of his own, but with a four, murmured words.

“I've got you, beast.”  
  
The confusion in Jonathan's expression was almost a look of betrayal. He could bear violence and quips but sincerity broke him. Of course it did. In the face of it, he couldn't be the monster he needed himself to be. This time, when he turned his face away, it was because he didn't want to be seen.  
  
“You're mine, Jon.” Geoffrey let a little growl into his own voice as he slipped inside the cage. “I'll always hunt you down. However long it takes, I'll always come back, sooner or later.”  
  
“Don't.” Low and monstrous, thick with emotion, the voice was barely Reid's at all. The vulnerability was gone. Claws shone dark beneath the manacles. “Don't promise what you may come to regret.”

“Oh, come hell or high water. You know that.”  
  
As he slashed his own wrist and slowly filled the cup, Geoffrey supposed it wasn't just the smell of blood that made Reid shake.  
  
***  
  


This time, they met away from the Guard headquarters. It boded well that Wilson had left a chair out for him. He'd even stacked a battered old ashtray on a pack of matches, which made Geoffrey's heart hurt more than it ought. It was like the small tokens left at a graveside.

“Where do you want to begin?” Wilson asked, taking up his own more comfortable position inside, on the other side of the balcony door.

Geoffrey didn't answer at first. He could still _smell_ Wilson and that was no good. That was what the cigarettes were for.

The match struck easily, flaring yellow. Hot smoke filled his nostrils and prickled his throat, blotting it all out. Tasting the smoke, thinking only about the smoke, he began at the center of it all; the thirst. Wilson would need to understand that, first, before he could understand the fever.  
  
***  
  
The summer nights darted past like bats, each chasing the last, there and gone too fast.

He leaped, landing easily on the balcony like a whipping wind. But the the moment the shadows dissipated, Wilson glanced up and scowled. “Jesus Christ, Geoff. When did you last feed?”

_Well, shit._

_“_ A rookie could spot you across a crowded street.” Wilson pressed, as though Geoffrey hadn't got the point the first time.  
  
He filed that away for later, feigning ease as he took his seat. “Hazard of a conscience, Jerry. My mark got away from me, and I don't like snatching passers-by for lack of better.”

He didn't say, _And I'm feeding two other people. And it's worse now, with all that I was used for._

Wilson grunted noncommittally and wrote something down. He had always been pragmatic about the killing, but he'd still be damned if he gave any part of it praise. Honestly, it was something Geoffrey liked about him.  
  
“Where did we leave off?” Geoffrey asked, filling his mouth with sweet smoke.  
  
“The fever. This infection. You added a few details Dr Reid omitted.” A fractional pause. “Like the Blood Goddess cultist prowling the West End. Which didn't seem important to _him_ , of course. But you said there was more.”

“Aye.” He breathed out, slow. This was going to be a long one. “Alright.”

He went slowly, avoiding details about the Voice, or the Dreams. That would only rouse up the Hunger. It could wait for a better night.

“It's a disease. Plain and simple. You catch it from a bite if conditions are right, but it's usually by the blood. Reid's Maker didn't have it, and neither did I at first. Which put me to wondering why?”

He pointed out details, filled in the history, traced in back. Wilson followed along, more or less. Geoffrey kept half an eye on the hunter's pencil, trying to spot the moment where the penny dropped.  
  
They were an hour in before the pencil started skittering off, making little side-notes and speculations. It was _an hour and a half_ before he started asking pointed questions, as if a theory was forming.

Geoffrey, who had been close to writing the theory on a brick and throwing it at him, was happy to help it along.

It went like this: Reid's Maker didn't have it, old blood that he was, away from the world for centuries at a time as he was. But this wasn't the first time the disease had surfaced. It had been in the wings a while until Swansea called it to the stage. So, where did it come from and where else might it be?  
  
You traced it back; Harriet infected by Blackwood's blood, Blackwood bitten by Marshall, Marshall infected by a Disaster some time in the late 1600s.  
  
Whatever disease had been in that Plague-ridden _Dis Astro,_ it took root in Marshall's blood. He passed it to his Progeny, more by accident than design. Then, off she went, to make her own Progeny and terrorize the continent.

So you opened your mind to one simple question: Between Blackwood and her Progeny, what exactly were the chances that they hadn't infected anyone else? In a hundred years of bloodlust and madness, what _precisely_ were the odds?  
  
Pretty fucking small.

It was a harrowing thought. Because, no matter how small the possibility of running into a carrier was, over a long enough life it would narrow to a _damned_ _certainty.  
  
_ A contagious sadism. An uncontrolled thirst that had nothing to do with weak will. Not a quirk of lineage, like the difference between tear-your-face-off Vulkod and subtler stab-in-the-back Ekon. Rather, something the most reasonably-minded leech might contract with the right exposure. Something that corrupted them, worse than the hunger alone.  
  
Once you opened your mind to the possibility, you saw it. They had both killed too many leeches who fit the mould too well. Too many unrelated leeches, cut to the same mold.

It would have started small. A 'cluster', by Reid's way of speaking, starting around the 1700s, spreading like coffee through water. Slow, but steady.

So, you thought on, and your guts went cold as you realised how neatly the timeline fit. Blackwood, 'cured' by Marshall before the turn of the last century, going home to play the dutiful daughter. Her Progeny cut loose to do as he would.

Less than 20 years later, the Brotherhood would schism. Kendall Stone would call for the extermination of all leeches. The Guard of Priwen would be born to shield humanity from the greatest of evils.

 _What did you know, Stone?_ McCullum had wondered. _What did you say that no one on either side saw fit to write down?_  
  
Over a hundred years later, all that survived of Kendall Stone were his rallying cries. If you judged the man on those speeches alone, you saw a crusader; a man who needed no more justification than his own righteousness. But he'd been high and powerful in the Brotherhood Council. He'd contemplated the nature of vampires all his life. Then, sudden as a coin flip, he had dedicated his life to the elimination of every last fucking one. Like a Naturalist, abruptly resolving on the extermination of every tiger, wolf and lion.

Of course, back then, no one knew a damn thing about diseases or how they spread. It was all 'bad air' and 'humors'. Even the brightest minds would have thought 'curse' before they thought 'sniffles'.

But, if there was a new evil spreading, it didn't matter why. It couldn't go unchecked. If you knew it was there, you knew what had to be done: The ruthless elimination of every last leech who might have succumbed. No mercy. No compromise. Even a quixotic enthusiast could have seen that.

If Stone had reservations, there was no trace of them in the surviving essays. But then, McCullum knew something about that. He'd been in Stone's shoes. Hell, he'd been a fucking vampire and he'd given a speech just like that, telling everyone they'd fought the good fight and made tomorrow better than today. It was what you did. You did it for your people, who sacrificed and died because they _believed_ what you were saying.

So, the Brotherhood tore itself in two. If there had been records of the disease, it was buried in the rubble. No one shared the parts of the puzzle they had. Too much bad blood. Too much bickering.

Infuriatingly, even Priwen's prowess kept the Brotherhood in their precious bubble of ignorance. The infected ones, more violent and noticeable than the others, would always be destroyed first.  
  
Someone should have seen the pattern, but who? With everyone wrapped up in their own agendas, hiding from one another?  
  
No one. Until now. Here they were, him and Wilson, each with a foot in both worlds. For the first time, someone could actually see what had been under everyone's noses.  
  
A leech disease, unseen, spreading, travelling the same vectors as the hunger. Something that turned its victims into ravenous sadists. Something that Reid's Maker wouldn't catch, being away from the world as often as he was. Something that might even breathe the madness backwards through the bonds of blood, driving the creature at its heart into a further frenzy.

Something that should have been stopped a long time ago.

“Jesus Christ.” Wilson muttered, putting down his pencil.  
  
“And all the Saints.” McCullum added, sliding the point home. “Reid's not just looking to cure himself. He's looking for a cure to a goddamn plague. It's not going to pass unnoticed by the other side, and we're going to need help.”

****  
  
  



End file.
